THE    LETTERS 

OF 

ANNE    GILCHRIST 

AND 

WALT   WHITMAN  I 


Photograph  taken  about  the  year  1870 


THE  LETTERS 

OF 

ANNE  GILCHRIST 

AND 

WALT  WHITMAN 


Edited 
With  an  Introduction 

BY 

THOMAS  B.  HARNED 

One  of  Walt  Whitman's  Literary  Executor* 


Illustrated 


GARDEN  CITY        NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1918 


COPYRIGHT,     igi,    BY 
DOUBLEDAY,    PAGE    &    COMPANY 

ALL    RIGHTS     RESERVED,     INCLUDING    THAT    OF 

TRANSLATION     INTO     FOREIGN     LANGUAGES, 

INCLUDING    THE     SCANDINAVIAN 


3>1| 


/^i 


in  fttemorfam 

AUGUSTA  TRAUBEL  HARNED 
1856-1914 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PREFACE xix 

INTRODUCTION Lxxi 

A  WOMAN'S  ESTIMATE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN       ...  3 

A  CONFESSION  OF  FAITH 23 

LETTER 

I .    WALT  WHITMAN  TO  WILLIAM  MICHAEL 

ROSSETTI  AND  ANNE  GlLCHRIST  56 

1 1 .    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 

Earl's  Colne  September  3,  1871       ...       58 

III.  ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
Shatter  Mill,  Haslemere,  Surrey 

October  23,  1871 65 

IV.  WALT  WHITMAN  TO  ANNE  GILCHRIST 
Washington,  D.  C. 

November  3,  1871 67 

V.    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
50  Marquis  Rd,  Camden  Sq.,  N.  W., 
London 

November  27,  1871 68 

VI .    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
50  Marquis  Rd.,  Camden  Sq.,  N.  W.t 

London 
January  24,  1872 72 

vii 


CONTENTS 

LETTER  PAGE 

VI I .    WALT  WHITMAN  TO  ANNE  GILCHRIST 
Washington,  D.  C. 

February  8,  1872 75 

VIII.    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
50  Marquis  Rd.,  Camden  Sq.,  N.  W. 
London 

April  12,  1872 ~  .       76 

1 IX.    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
50  Marquis  Rd.,  Camden  Sq.,  N.  W., 
London 

June^,  1872 79 

X.    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
50  Marquis  Rd.,  Camden  Sq.,  N.  W.t 
London 

July  14,  1872 82 

XI .    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
50  Marquis  Rd.,  Camden  Sq. 

November  12,  1872 85 

XII .    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
50  Marquis  Rd.,  Camden  Sq.,  London, 

N.W. 
January  31,  1873 86 

XIII.  ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
50  Marquis  Rd.,  Camden  Sq.,  London, 

N.  W. 
May  20,  1873     . 88 

XIV.  ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
Earl's  Colne,  Halstead 

August  12,  1873       .......      91 

viii 


CONTENTS 

LETTER  PAGE 

XV.     WALT  WHITMAN  TO  ANNE  GILCHRIST 
Camden,  New  Jersey 

Undated.    Summer  of  1873      ....       94 
XVI .    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
Earl's  Colne,  Halstead 

September  4,  1873 96 

XVI I .    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
50  Marquis   Road,  Camden  Square, 
Lordon,  N.  W. 

November  3,  1873 98 

XVIII.    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
50  Marquis  Road,   Camden  Square, 

London,  N.  W. 

December  8,  1873  102 

XIX.    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
50  Marquis   Road,   Camden  Square, 
London,  N.  W. 

February  26,  1874 105 

XX.    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
50  Marquis   Road,  Camden  Square, 
London,  N.  W. 

March  9,  1874 108 

XXI .    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
50  Marquis   Road,  Camden  Square,^ 
London,  N.  W. 

May  14,  1874 109 

XXII .    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
50  Marquis   Road,  Camden  Square,} 

London,  N.  W. 
July,  4,  1874     ,   .    .   v    .    .    .;  :,    .     112 

ix 


CONTENTS 

LETTER  PAGE 

XXIII .  ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
Earl's  Colne 

September  3,  1874 115 

XXIV.  ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
50  Marquis   Road,   Camden  Square, 

London,  N.  W. 
December  9,  1 874  119 

XXV.     ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
50  Marquis   Road,   Camden  Square, 
London,  N.  W. 

December  30,  1874 121 

XXVI .     ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
Earl's  Colne,  Halstead 

February  21,  1875 123 

XXVI I .     ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
50  Marquis  Road,  Camden  Square, 
London,  N.  W. 

May  18,  1875 126 

XXVI 1 1 .    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
Earl's  Colne 

August  28,  1875 129 

XXIX.     ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
i  Torriano  Gardens,  Camden  Square, 
London 

November  16,  1875 133 

XXX .     ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
I    Torriano  Gardens,  Camden  Road, 

London 
December  4,  1875 137 


CONTENTS 

LETTER  PAGE 

XXXI .  ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
Blaenavon,  Rout^pool,  Mon.,  England 
January  18,  1876 139 

XXX 1 1 .     ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
i    Torriano  Gardens,  Camden   Road, 

London 
February  25,  1876 141 

XXXIII.  ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
i    Torriano  Gardens,  Camden  Road, 
London,  March  n,  1876 143 

XXXIV.  WALT  WHITMANTO  ANNE  GILCHRIST 
Camden,  New  Jersey. 

Undated,  March,  1876 145 

XXXV.  ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
i  Torriano  Gardens,  Camden  Road, 

London 
March  ^Q,  1876 147 

XXXVI .    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
I    Torriano  Gardens,  Camden  Road, 

London 
April  21,  1876 149 

XXXVII .     ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
i    Torriano  Gardens,  Camden  Road, 

London 
May  18,  1876 152 

XXXVI 1 1 .     ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 

Round  Hill,  Northampton,  Massachusetts 
September,  1877 154 


CONTENTS 

LETTER  PAGE 

XXXIX .     BEATRICE  C.  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT 

WHITMAN 

New  England  Hospital,  Codman  Ave 
nue,  Boston  Highlands 
Undated        156 

XL.    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
Chesterfield,  Massachusetts 
September  3,  1878 159 

XLI .    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
Concord,  Massachusetts 
October  25  (1878)     .......     161 

XLI  I .    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
39  Somerset  Street,  Boston 
November  13,  1878 163 

XLI  1 1 .    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
1 1 2  Madison  Avenue,  New  York 
January  5,  1879 166 

XLIV.    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
1 12  Madison  Avenue,  New  York 
January  14,  1879 169 

XLV.    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
1 1 2  Madison  Avenue,  New  York 
January  27,  1879 171 

XLVI .     HERBERT  H.  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHIT 
MAN 

1 12  Madison  Avenue,  New  York 
February,  2,  1879 173 

xii 


CONTENTS 


LETTER 

XLVI I .     BEATRICE  C.  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHIT 
MAN 
5^  Warrenton  Street,  Boston 

February  16,  1879 

XLVII I .     ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
1 1 2  Madison  Avenue,  New  York 

March  18,  1879 

XLIX .    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
1 12  Madison  Avenue,  New  York 

March  26,  1879 

L.    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
Glasgow,  Scotland 

June  20,  1879 

LI .     ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
Lower  Shincliffe,  Durham 

August  2,  1879 

LI  I .    WALT  WHITMAN  TO  ANNE  GILCHRIST 
Camden,  New  Jersey 
Undated,  August,  1879      .       ... 
LII I .    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
.      i  Elm  yillas,  Elm  Row,  Heath  Street, 
Hampstead,  London 

December  5,  1879 

LIV.    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
5  Mount  Vernon,  Hampstead, 

January  25,  1880 

LV.    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
Marley,  Haslemere,  England 
August  22,  1880 


PAGE 


175 


177 


179 


181 


.     183 
186 


187 


190 


193 


X1H 


CONTENTS 

LETTER  PAGE 

LVI.     HERBERT   H,   GILCHRIST  TO  WALT 

WHITMAN 
12  Well  Road,  Keats  Corner,  Hampstead, 

London 
November  30,  1880        195 

CA 

LVI  I .    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
Well  Road,  Keats  Corner,  Hampstead, 

London 
April  18,  1881 197 

JLVIII.     HERBERT  H.  GILCHRIST   TO   WALT. 

WHITMAN 
Well  Road,  Keats  Corner,  Hampstead, 

North  London 
June  5,  1881 200 

LIX .     ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
12  Well  Road,  Hampstead,  London 
December  14,  1881 203 

LX .    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
12  Well  Road,  Hampstead,  London 
January  29  and  February  6,  1882       .     .     205 

LXI .    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
12  Well  Road,  Hampstead,  London 
May  8,  1882 207 

LXI  I.    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
Well  Road,  Keats  Corner,  Hampstead, 

London 
November  24,  1 882 209 

xiv 


CONTENTS 

LETTER  PAGE 

LXIII .    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
12  Well  Road,  Hampstead,  London 
January  27,  1883 „     211 

LXIV.     HERBERT   H.  GILCHRIST   TO   WALT 

WHITMAN 

Well  Road,  Keats  Corner,  Hampstead, 
London 

April  29,  1883 213 

LXV.    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
Keats  Corner,  Hampstead,  London 
May  6,  1883 .215 

LXVI .     ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
Keats  Corner,  Hampstead,  London 
July  30,  188} 217 

LXVI  I .     ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
Keats  Corner,  Hampstead,  London 

October  13,  1883 220 

LXVI  1 1 .    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
Keats  Corner,  Hampstead,  London 
April  5,  1884 223 

LXIX.    ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
Hampstead,  London 

May  2,  1884 225 

LXX .     ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
Keats  Corner,  London 
August  5,  1884  227 

LXXI .     ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 
Wolverhampton 
October  26,  1884 228 

xv 


CONTENTS 


LETTER 

LX X 1 1 .     ANN |  0 \ i CHRIST  TO  WM  T  WHITMAN 

•\  .--.:: «  v     '  '  .  '     :-'.:••: ."'  . .:.;".    .'  /*.:"/•; 

December  17,  1884 230 

L  X  X 1 1 1  .       AN  N  E  G 1 L  CH  R I  >T  TO  \Y  A  LT  \YH  1  TMAN 


Ftbnunyaj,  1885 

L X X 1  \* .      ANN  |  <T  TO  \\*ALT  \\*HITMAN 


LXXY.     ANN:  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WH. 
^•40Hl0tfHHJ     *.  vN *.*•«  k^ '* 

Jmntzi.  iSSs 

L  \\Y1.      ANN.  UTWta 

::  ','  .::  ^-.:-    ::.:-.- 

7^20,1885 


TNT 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Walt  Whitman Frontispiece 

FACING  FACE 

Anne  Gilchrist 54 

Facsimile  of  a  typical  Whitman  letter 94 

Facsimile  of  one  of  Anne  Gilchrist's  letters  to  Walt 
Whitman in  the  text  pages     131,133 


xvn 


PREFACE 

Probably  there  are  few  who  to-day  question  the  pro 
priety  of  publishing  the  love-letters  of  eminent  persons 
a  generation  after  the  deaths  of  both  parties  to  the 
correspondence.  When  one  recalls  the  published  love- 
letters  of  Abelard,  of  Dorothy  Osborne,  of  Lady  Hamil 
ton,  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft,  of  Margaret  Fuller,  of 
George  Sand,  Bismarck,  Shelley,  Victor  Hugo,  Edgar 
Allan  Poe,  and — to  mention  only  one  more  illustrious 
example — of  the  Brownings,  one  must  needs  look  upon 
this  form  of  presenting  biographical  material  as  a  well- 
established,  if  not  a  valuable,  convention  of  letters. 

As  to  the  particular  set  of  letters  presented  to  the 
reader  in  this  volume,  a  word  of  explanation  and  history 
may  be  required.  Most  of  these  letters  are  from  Anne 
Gilchrist  to  Walt  Whitman,  a  few  are  replies  to  her 
letters,  and  a  few  are  letters  from  her  children  to  Whit 
man.  Mrs.  Gilchrist  died  in  1885.  When,  two  years 
later,  her  son,  Herbert  Harlakenden  Gilchrist,  was  col 
lecting  material  for  his  interesting  biography  of  his 
mother,  Whitman  was  asked  for  the  letters  that  she 
had  written  to  him — or  rather  for  extracts  from  them. 
In  reply  to  this  request  the  poet  said,  "  I  do  not  know 
that  I  can  furnish  any  good  reason,  but  I  feel  to  keep 
these  utterances  exclusively  to  myself.  But  I  cannot 
let  your  book  go  to  press  without  at  least  saying — 
and  wishing  it  put  on  record — that  among  the  perfect 


XIX 


PREFACE 

women  I  have  met  (and  it  has  been  my  unspeakably 
good  fortune  to  have  had  the  very  best,  for  mother, 
sisters,  and  friends)  I  have  known  none  more  perfect 
in  every  relation,  than  my  dear,  dear  friend,  Anne  Gil- 
christ."  But  since  Whitman  carefully  preserved  them 
for  twenty  years,  refusing  to  destroy  them  as  he  had 
destroyed  such  other  written  matter  as  he  did  not  care 
to  have  preserved,  it  would  appear  that  he  intended 
that  so  beautiful  a  tribute  to  the  poetry  that  he  had 
written,  no  less  than  to  the  personality  of  the  poet, 
should  be  included  in  that  complete  biography  which  is 
being  slowly  written,  by  many  hands,  of  America's 
most  unique  man  of  genius.  In  any  case,  when  these 
letters  came  into  my  hands  in  the  apportionment  of 
Whitman's  literary  legacy  under  the  will  which  named 
me  as  one  of  his  three  literary  executors,  there  were  but 
three  things  which  I  could  honourably  do  with  them — 
rather,  on  closer  analysis,  there  seemed  to  be  but  one. 
To  leave  them  in  my  will  or  to  place  them  in  some 
public  repository  would  have  been  to  shift  a  responsi 
bility  which  was  evidently  mine  to  the  shoulders  of 
others  who,  perhaps,  would  be  in  possession  of  fewer 
facts  in  the  light  of  which  to  discharge  that  responsi 
bility.  To  destroy  them  would  be  to  do  what  Whitman 
should  have  done  if  it  was  to  be  done  at  all,  and  to  erase 
forever  one  of  the  finest  tributes  that  either  the  man  or 
the  poet  ever  received,  one  of  the  most  touching  self- 
revelations  that  a  noble  soul  ever  "poured  out  on 
paper."  The  remaining  alternative  was  to  edit  and 
publish  them  (after  keeping  them  a  proper  length  of 
time),  for  the  benefit,  not  only  of  the  general  reader,  but 

xx 


PREFACE 

as  an  aid  to  the  future  biographer  who  from  the  proper 
perspective  will  write  the  life  of  America's  great  poet  and 
prophet.  In  this  determination  my  judgment  has  been 
confirmed  by  that  of  the  few  sympathetic  friends  who, 
during  the  twenty-five  years  that  the  letters  have  been 
in  my  possession,  have  been  allowed  to  read  them. 

I  IMS  a  jnatter  of  regret  that  so  few  of  Whitman's 
letters  to  Mrs.  Gilchrist  are  available.  Those  included 
irTthis  volume,  sometimes  in  fragmentary  form,  have 
been  taken  from  loose  copies  found  among  his  papers 
after  his  death,  or,  in  a  few  instances,  are  reprinted 
from  Herbert  Harlakenden  Gilchrist's  "Anne  Gilchrist" 
or  Horace  Traubel's  "With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden." 
Acknowledgment  of  these  latter  is  made  in  each 
instance.  But  though  Whitman's  letters  printed  in 
this  correspondence  will  not  compare  with  Mrs.  Gil 
christ's  in  point  of  number,  enough  are  presented  to 
suggest  the  tenor  of  them  all. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  first  .love-letter  frorn  ftnne.^ 
Gilchrist  to  Walt_Whitrnan  _was  in  :theJ:orm..of  an 
essaywntten  in  his  defense  called  _^An  Englishwoman's 
Estimate  of  Walt  ^WKifman7r  For  that  reason  this 
well-known  essay  is  reprinted  in  this  volume;  and  "A 
Confession  of  Faith,"  in  reality  an  amplification  of 
the  "Estimate"  written  several  years  after  the  publi 
cation  of  the  latter,  is  included.  The  reader  who  desires 
to  follow  the  story  of  this  friendship  in  a  chronological 
order  will  do  well  to  read  at  least  the  former  of  these 
tributes  before  beginning  the  letters.  Indebtedness 
is  acknowledged  to  Prof.  Emory  Halloway  of  Brook 
lyn,  New  York,  for  valuable  suggestions.  T.  B.  H. 

xxi 


INTRODUCTION 

Undoubtedly  Mrs.  Gilchrist's  "Estimate  of  Walt 
Whitman,"  published  in  the  (Boston)  Radical  in  May, 
1870,  was  the  finest,  as  it  was  the  first,  public  tribute 
ever  paid  to  the  poet  by  a  woman.  Whitman  himself 
so  considered  it — "the  proudest  word  that  ever  came 
to  me  from  a  woman — if  not  the  proudest  word  of  all 
from  any  source."  But  a  finer  tribute  was  to  follow, 
in  the  sacred  privacy  of  the  love-letters  which  are  now 
made  public  forty  years  and  more  after  they  were 
written.  The  purpose  of  this  Introduction  is  not  to 
interpret  those  letters,  but  to  sketch  the  story  in  the 
light  of  which  they  are  to  be  read.  And  since  both 
Anne  Gilchrist  and  Walt  Whitman  have  had  sympathe 
tic  and  painstaking  biographers,  it  will  not  be  necessary 
here  to  mention  at  length  the  already  known  facts  of 
their  respective  lives. 

The  story  naturally  begins  with  Whitman.  He  was 
born  at  West  Hills,  Long  Island,  New  York,  on  May 
31,  1819.  His  father  was  of  English  descent,  and  came 
of  a  family  of  sailors  and  farmers.  His  mother,  to 
whom  he  himself  attributed  most  of  his  personal 
qualities,  was  of  excellent  Hollandic  stock.  Moving 
to  Brooklyn  while  still  in  frocks,  he  there  passed  his 
boyhood  and  youth,  but  took  many  summer  trips  to 
visit  relatives  in  the  country.  He  early  left  the  public 

xxiii 


INTRODUCTION 

school  for  the  printing  offices  of  local  newspapers,  pick 
ing  enough  general  knowledge  to  enable  him,  when 
about  seventeen  years  of  age,  to  teach  schools  in  the 
rural  districts  of  his  native  island.  Very  early  in  life 
he  became  a  writer,  chiefly  of  short  prose  tales  and 
essays,  which  were  accepted  by  the  best  New  York 
magazines.  His  literary  and  journalistic  work  was  not 
confined  to  the  metropolis,  but  took  him,  for  a  few 
months  in  1848,  so  far  away  from  home  as  New  Orleans. 
In  1851-54,  besides  writing  for  and  editing  newspapers, 
he  was  engaged  in  housebuilding,  the  trade  of  his 
father.  Although  this  was,  it  is  said,  a  profitable 
business,  he  gave  it  up  to  write  poetry,  and  issued  his 
first  volume,  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  in  1855.  The  book  had 
been  written  with  great  pains,  according  to  a  precon 
ceived  plan  of  the  author  to  be  stated  in  the  preface;  and 
it  was  finally  set  up  (by  his  own  hands,  for  want  of  a 
publisher)  only,  as  he  tells  us,  after  many  "doings  and 
undoings,  leaving  out  the  stock  'poetical'  touches." 
Its  publication  was  the  occasion  of  probably  the  most 
voluminous  controversy  of  American  letters — mostly 
abuse,  ridicule,  and  condemnation. 

In  1862  Whitman's  brother  George,  who  had  vol 
unteered  ]  in  the  Union  Army,  was  reported  badly 
wounded  in  the  Fredericksburg  fight.  Walt,  going 
at  once  to  the  war  front  in  Virginia,  found  that  his 
brother's  wound  was  not  serious  enough  to  require  his 
ministrations,  but  gradually  he  became  engaged  in 
nursing  other  wounded  soldiers,  until  this  work,  as 
a  volunteer  hospital  missionary  in  Washington,  en 
grossed  the  major  part  of  his  time.  This  continued  until 

xxiv  T 


INTRODUCTION 

and  for  some  years  after  the  end  of  the  war.  Whit 
man's  own  needs  were  supplied  by  occasional  literary 
work  and  from  his  earnings  as  a  clerk  first  in  the 
Interior  and  later  in  the  Attorney  General's  Depart 
ment.  He  had  gone  to  Washington  a  man  of  strong 
and  majestic  physique,  but  his  untiring  devotion, 
fidelity,  and  vigilance  in  nursing  the  sick  and  wounded 
soldiers  in  the  army  hospitals  in  and  about  Washington 
was  soon  to  shatter  that  constitution  which  was  ever  a 
marvel  to  its  possessor,  and  to  condemn  him  to  pass  the 
last  j^o  decades  of  his  life  in  unaccustomed  invalidism. 
The  history  of  the  Civil  War  in  America  presents  no  in- 
stanceof  nobler  fulfilment  of  duty  or  of  sublimer  sacrifice. 
Meanwhile  his  muse  was  not  neglected.  His  book 
had  gone  through  four  editions,  and,  with  the  incre 
ment  of  the  noble  war  poetry  of  "Drum  Taps/'  had  be 
come  a  volume  of  size.  At  a  very  early  period  "  Leaves  of 
Grass"  had  been  hailed  as  an  important  literary  con 
tribution  by  a  few  of  the  best  thinkers  in  this  country 
and  in  England  but,  generally  speaking,  nearly  all 
literary  persons  received  it  with  much  criticism  and 
many  qualifications.  In  Washington  devoted  dis 
ciples  like  William  Douglas  O'Connor  and  John  Bur 
roughs  never  varied  in  their  uncompromising  adher 
ence  to  the  book  and  its  author.  This  appreciation 
only  by  the  few  was  likewise  encountered  in  England. 
The  book  had  made  a  stir  among  the  literary  classes, 
but  its  importance  was  not  at  all  generally  recognized. 
Men  like  John  Addington  Symonds,  Edward  Dowden, 
and  William  Michael  Rossetti  were,  however,  almost 
unrestricted  in  their  praise. 

xxv 


INTRODUCTION 

It  was  William  Rossetti  who  planned,  in  1867,  to 
bring  out  in  England  a  volume  of  selections  from 
Whitman's  poetry,  in  the  belief  that  it  was  better  to 
leave  out  the  poems  that  had  provoked  such  adverse 
criticism,  in  order  to  get  Whitman  a  foothold  among 
those  who  might  prefer  to  have  an  expurgated  edition. 
Whitman's  attitude  toward  the  plan  at  the  time  is 
given  in  a  letter  which  he  wrote  to  Rossetti  on  De 
cember  3,  1867:"!  cannot  and  will  not  consent  of  my 
own  volition  to  countenance  an  expurgated  edition 
of  my  pieces.  I  have  steadily  refused  to  do  so  under 
seductive  offers,  here  in  my  own  country,  and  must 
not  do  so  in  another  country. "  It  appeared,  however, 
that  Rossetti  had  already  advanced  his  project,  and 
Whitman  graciously  added:  "If,  before  the  arrival  of 
this  letter,  you  have  practically  invested  in,  and  accom 
plished,  or  partially  accomplished,  any  plan,  even 
contrary  to  this  letter,  I  do  not  expect  you  to  abandon 
it,  at  loss  of  outlay;  but  shall  bona  fide  consider  you 
blameless  if  you  let  it  go  on,  and  be  carried  out,  as  you 
may  have  arranged.  It  is  the  question  of  the  author 
ization  of  an  expurgated  edition  proceeding  from  me, 
that  deepest  engages  me.  The  facts  of  the  different 
ways,  one  way  or  another  way,  in  which  the  book  may 
appear  in  England,  out  of  influences  not  under  the 
shelter  of  my  umbrage,  are  of  much  less  importance  to 
me.  After  making  the  foregoing  explanation,  I  shall, 
I  think,  accept  kindly  whatever  happens.  For  I  feel, 
indeed  know,  that  I  am  in  the  hands  of  a  friend,  and 
that  my  pieces  will  receive  that  truest,  brightest  of 
light  and  perception  coming  from  love.  In  that,  all 

xxvi 


INTRODUCTION 

other  and  lesser  requisites  become  pale.  .  .  ." 
The  Rossetti  "Selections"  duly  appeared  —  with  what 
momentous  influence  upon  the  two  persons  whose 
friendship  we  are  tracing  will  presently  be  shown. 

On  June  22,  1869,  Anne  Gilchrist,  writing  to  Ros 
setti,  said:  "I  was  calling  on  Madox  Brown  a  fort 
night  ago,  and  he  put  into  my  hands  your  edition  of 
Walt  Whitman's  poems.  I  shall  not  cease  to  thank 
him  for  that.  Since  I  have  had  it,  I  can  read  no  other 
book:  it  holds  me  entirely  spellbound,  and  I  go  through 
it  again  and  again  with  deepening  delight  and  wonder. 
How  can  one  refrain  from  expressing  gratitude  to  you 
for  what  you  have  so  admirably  done?  .  .  ." 
To  this  Rossetti  promptly  responded:  ''Your  letter 
has  given  me  keen  pleasure  this  morning.  That  glo 
rious  man  Whitman  will  one  day  be  known  as  one  of  the 
greatest  sons_ol_Eaj:th,  a  few  steps 


on  the  throne  of  immortality.  What  a  tearing-away 
of  the  obscuring  veil  of  use  and  wont  from  the  visage  of 
man  and  of  life!  I  am  doing  myself  the  pleasure  of  at 
once  ordering  a  copy  of  the  "Selections"  for  you,  which 
you  will  be  so  kind  as  to  accept.  Genuine  —  i.  e.,  enthu 
siastic  —  appreciators  are  not  so  common,  and  must 
be  cultivated  when  they  appear.  .  .  .  Anybody 
who  values  Whitman  as  you  do  ought  to  read  the 
whole  of  him.  .  .  ."  At  a  later  date  Rossetti 
gave  Mrs.  Gilchrist  a  copy  of  the  complete  "Leaves  of 
Grass,"  in  acknowledging  which  she  said,  "The  gift  of 
yours  I  have  not  any  words  to  tell  you  how  priceless  it 
will  be  to  me.  ..."  This  lengthy  letter  was  later, 
at  Rossetti's  solicitation,  worked  over  for  publication 

xxvii 


INTRODUCTION 

as  the  "  Estimate  of  Walt  Whitman"  to  which  reference 
has  already  been  made. 

Anne  Gilchrist  was  primarily  a  woman  of  letters. 
Though  her  natural  bent  was  toward  science  and 
philosophy,  her  marriage  threw  her  into  association 
with  artists  and  'writers  of  belles  lettr-es.  She  was 
born  in  London  on  February  25,  1828.  She  came  of 
excellent  ancestry,  and  received  a  good  education,  par 
ticularly  in  music.  She  had  a  profoundly  religious 
nature,  although  it  appears  that  she  was  never  a  be 
liever  in  many  of  the  orthodox  Christian  doctrines. 
Very  early  in  life  she  recognized  the  greatness  of  such 
men  as  Emerson  and  Comte.  In  1851,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-three,  she  married  Alexander  Gilchrist,  two 
months  her  junior.  Though  of  limited  means,  he  pos 
sessed  literary  ability  and  was  then  preparing  for  the 
bar.  His  early  writings  secured  for  him  the  friend 
ship  of  Carlyle,  who  for  years  lived  next  door  to  the 
Gilchrists  in  Cheyne  Row.  This  friendship  led  to 
others,  and  the  Gilchrists  were  soon  introduced  into 
that  supreme  literary  circle  which  included  Ruskin, 
Herbert  Spencer,  George  Eliot,  the  Rossettis,  Tenny 
son,  and  many  another  great  mind  of  that  illustrious 
age. 

Within  ten  years  of  their  marriage  the  Gilchrists 
had  four  children,  in  whom  they  were  very  happy. 
But  in  the  year  1861,  when  Anne  was  thirty-three  years 
of  age,  her  husband  died.  It  was  a  terrible  blow,  but 
she  faced  the  future  unflinchingly,  and  reared  her 
children,  giving  to  each  of  them  a  profession.  At 
the  time  of  her  husband's  death  his  life  of  William 

xxviii 


INTRODUCTION 

Blake  was  nearing  completion.  With  the  assistance  of 
William  and  Gabriel  Rossetti  Mrs.  Gilchrist  finished 
the  work  on  this  excellent  biography,  and  it  was  pub 
lished  by  Macmillan.  Whitman  has  paid  a  fitting 
tribute  to  the  pluck  exhibited  in  this  achievement: 
"Do  you  know  much  of  Blake?"  said  Whitman  to 
Horace  Traubel,  who  records  the  conversation  in  his 
remarkable  book  "With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden." 
"You  know,  this  is  Mrs.  Gilchrist's  book — the  book  she 
completed.  They  had  made  up  their  minds  to  do  the 
work—her  husband  had  it  well  under  way:  he  caught 
a  fever  and  was  carried  off.  Mrs.  Gilchrist  was  left 
with  four  young  children,  alone:  her  perplexities  were 
great.  Have  you  noticed  that  the  time  to  look  for  the 
best  things  in  best  people  is  the  moment  of  their  greatest 
need?  Look  at  Lincoln:  he  is  our  proudest  example: 
he  proved  to  be  big  as,  bigger  than,  any  emergency 
— his  grasp  was  a  giant's  grasp — made  dark  things 
light,  made  hard  things  easy.  .  .  .  (Mrs.  Gilchrist) 
belonged  to  the  same  noble  breed :  seized  the  reins,  was 
competent ;  her  head  was  clear,  her  hand  was  firm. " 

The  circumstances  under  which  she  first  read  Whit 
man's  poetry  have  been  narrated.  When  in  1869 
Whitman  became  aware  of  the  Rossetti  correspon 
dence,  he  felt  greatly  honoured,  and  through  Rossetti 
he  sent  his  portrait  to  the  as  yet  anonymous  lady. 
In  acknowledging  this  communication  his  English 
friend  has  a  grateful  word  from  "the  lady"  to  return: 
"I  gave  your  letter,  and  the  second  copy  of  your 
portrait,  to  the  lady  you  refer  to,  and  need  scarcely  say 
how  truly  delighted  she  was.  She  has  asked  me  to  say 

xxix 


INTRODUCTION 

that  you  could  not  have  devised  for  her  a  more  welcome 
pleasure,  and  that  she  feels  grateful  to  me  for  having 
sent  to  America  the  extracts  from  what  she  had  written, 
since  they  have  been  a  satisfaction  to  you.  .  .  ." 
Early  in  1870  the  "Estimate"  appeared  in  the  Radi 
cal,  still  more  than  a  year  before  Mrs.  Gilchrist  addressed 
her  first  letter  to  Whitman.  He  welcomed  the  essay, 
and  its  author  as  a  new  and  peculiarly  powerful  cham 
pion  of  "Leaves  of  Grass."  To  Rossetti  he  wrote :  "  I  am 
deeply  touched  by  these  sympathies  and  convictions, 
coming  from  a  woman  and  from  England,  and  am  sure 
that  if  the  lady  knew  how  much  comfort  it  has  been  to 
me  to  |  get,  them,  she  would  not  only  pardon  you  for 
transmitting  them  but  approve  that  action.  I  realize 
indeed  of  this  smiling  and  emphatic  well  done  from  the 
heart  and  conscience  of  a  true  wife  and  mother,  and  one, 
too,  whose  sense  of  the  poetic,  as  I  glean  from  your 
letter,  after  flowing  through  the  heart  and  conscience, 
must  also  move  through  and  satisfy  science  as  much  as 
the  esthetic,  that  I  had  hitherto  received  no  eulogium  so 
magnificent."  Concerning  this  experience  Whitman 
said  to  Horace  Traubel,  at  a  much  later  period:  "You 
can  imagine  what  such  a  thing  as  her  '  Estimate'  meant 
to  me  at  that  time.  Almost  everybody  was  against  me 
— the  papers,  the  preachers,  the  literary  gentlemen — 
nearly  everybody  with  only  here  and  there  a  dissenting 
voice — when  it  looked  on  the  surface  as  if  my  enter 
prise  was  bound  to  fail  .  .  .  then  this  wonderful 
woman.  Such  things  stagger  a  man  ...  I  had  got 
so  used  to  being  ignored  or  denounced  that  the  appear 
ance  of  a  friend  was  always  accompanied  with  a  sort  of 

XXX 


INTRODUCTION 

shock.  .  .  '.  There  are  shocks  that  knock  you  up, 
shocks  that  knock  you  down.  Mrs.  Gilchrist  never 
wavered  from  her  first  decision.  I  have  that  sort  of 
feeling  about  her  which  cannot  easily  be  spoken  of — • 
.  .  .  :  love  (strong  personal  love,  too),  reverence, 
respect — you  see,  it  won't  go  into  words:  all  the  words 
are  weak  and  formal/'  Speaking  again  of  her  first 
criticism  of  his  work,  he  said:  "I  remember  well  how 
one  of  my  noblest,  best  friends — one  of  my  wisest, 
cutest,  profoundest,  most  candid  critics — how  Mrs.  Gil 
christ,  even  to  the  last,  insisted  that  "Leaves  of  Grass" 
was  not  the  mouthpiece  of  parlours,  refinements — no — 
but  the  language  of  strength,  power,  passion,  inten 
sity,  absorption,  sincerity.  .  .  ."  He  claimed  a 
closer  relationship  to  her  than  he  allowed  to  Rossetti: 
"Rossetti  mentions  Mrs.  Gilchrist.  Well,  he  had  a 
right  to — almost  as  much  right  as  I  had:  a  sort  of 
brother's  right:  she  was  his  friend,  she  was  more  than 
my  friend.  I  feel  like  Hamlet  when  he  said  forty 
thousand  brothers  could  not  feel  what  he  felt  for 
Ophelia.  After  all  .  .  .  we  were  a  family — a  happy 
family:  the  few  of  us  who  got  together,  going  with  love 
the  same  way — we  were  a  happy  family.  The  crowd 
was  on  the  other  side  but  we  were  on  our  side — we:  a 
few  of  us,  just  a  few :  and  despite  our  paucity  of  numbers 
we  made  ourselves  tell  for  the  good  cause. " 

From  these  expressions  it  is  quite  clear  that  Whit 
man's  attitude  toward  Mrs.  Gilchrist  was  at  first 
that  of  the  unpopular  prophet  who  finds  a  worthy  and 
welcome  disciple  in  an  unexpected  place.  And  that 
he  should  have  so  felt  was  but  natural,  for  she  had  been 

xxxi 


INTRODUCTION 

drawn  to  him,  as  she  confided  to  him  in  one  of  her 
letters,  by  what  he  had  written  rather  than  and  not  by 
her  knowledge  of  the  man.  There  can  be  no  doubt, 
however,  that  on  Mrs.  Gilchrist's  part  something  more 
than  the  friendship  of  her  new-found  liberator  was 
desired.  When  she  read  the  "  Leaves  of  Grass"  she  was 
forty-one  years  of  age,  in  the  full  vigour  of  womanhood. 
To  her  the  reading  meant  a  new  birth,  causing  her  to 
pour  out  her  soul  to  the  prophet  and  poet  across  the  seas 
with  a  freedom  and  abandon  that  were  phenomenal. 
This  was  in  the  first  letter  printed  in  this  volume,  under 
date  of  September  3,  1871,  and  about  the  time  that 
Whitman  had  sent  to  his  new  supporter  a  copy  of  his 
poems.  Perhaps  the  strongest  reason  why  Whitman 
did  not  reply  to  passion  with  passion  lies  in  the  fact 
that  his  heart  was,  so  far  as  attachments  of  that  sort 
were  concerned,  already  bestowed  elsewhere.  I  am 
indebted  to  Professor  Holloway  for  the  information 
that  Whitman  was,  in  1864,  the  unfortunate  lover  of 
a  certain  lady  whose  previous  marriage  to  another, 
while  it  did  not  dim  their  mutual  devotion,  did  serve 
to  keep  them  apart.  To  her  Whitman  wrote  that 
heart-wrung  lyric  of  separation,  "Out  of  the  rolling 
ocean,  the  crowd."  This  suggests  that  there  was 
probably  a  double  tragedy,  so  ironical  is  the  fate  of  the 
affections,  Anne  Gilchrist  and  Walt  Whitman  both 
passionately  yearning  for  personal  love  yet  unable  to 
quench  the  one  desire  in  the  other. 

But  if  there  could  not  be  between  them  the  love  which 
leads  to  marriage,  there  could  be  a  noble  and  tender 
and  life-long  friendship.  Over  this  Whitman's  loss  of 

xxxii 


INTRODUCTION 

his  magnificent  health,  to  be  followed  by  an  invalidism 
of  twenty  years,  had  no  power.  In  1873  Whitman  was 
stricken  with  paralysis,  which  rendered  him  so  helpless 
that  he  had  to  give  up  his  work  and  finally  his  position, 
and  to  go  to  live  for  the  rest  of  his  life  in  Camden,  New 
Jersey.  Mrs.  Gilchrist's  affection  for  him  did  not 
waver  when  this  trial  was  made  of  it.  Indeed,  his 
illness  had  the  effect,  as  these  letters  show,  of  quicken 
ing  the  desire  which  she  had  had  for  several  years 
(since  1869)  of  coming  to  live  in  America,  that  she 
might  be  near  him  to  lighten  his  burdens,  and,  if  she 
could  not  hope  to  cherish  him  as  a  wife,  that  she  might 
at  least  care  for  him  as  a  mother.  Whitman,  it  will  be 
noted,  strongly  advised  against  this  plan.  Just  why  he 
wished  to  keep  her  away  from  America  is  unclear,  pos 
sibly  because  he  dared  not  put  so  idealistic  a  friendship 
and  discipleship  to  the  test  of  personal  acquaintance 
with  a  prematurely  broken  old  man.  Nevertheless,  on 
August  30,  1876,  Mrs.  Gilchrist  set  sail,  with  three  of 
her  children,  for  Philadelphia.  They  arrived  in  Sep 
tember.  From  that  date  until  the  spring  of  1878  the 
Gilchrists  kept  house  at  1929  North  Twenty-second 
street,  Philadelphia,  where  Whitman  was  a  frequent 
and  regular  visitor. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  Mrs.  Gilchrist's  appre 
ciation  of  Whitman  did  not  lessen  after  she  had  met 
and  known  him  in  the  intimacy  of  that  tea-table  circle 
which  at  her  house  discussed  the  same  great  variety  of 
topics — literature,  religion,  science,  politics — that  had 
enlivened  the  O'Connor  breakfast  table  in  Washington. 
She  shall  describe  it  and  him  herself.  In  a  letter  to 

xxxiii 


INTRODUCTION 

Rossetti,  under  date  of  December  22,  1876,  she  writes: 
"But  I  need  not  tell  you  that  our  greatest  pleasure  is 
the  society  of  Mr.  Whitman,  who  fully  realizes  the  ideal 
I  had  formed  from  his  poems,  and  brings  such  an 
atmosphere  of  cordiality  and  geniality  with  him  as  is 
indescribable.  He  is  really  making  slow  but,  I  trust, 
steady  progress  toward  recovery,  having  been  much 
cheered  (and  no  doubt  that  acted  favourably  upon 
his  health)  by  the  sympathy  manifested  toward  him 
in  England  and  the  pleasure  of  finding  so  many  buyers 
of  his  poems  there.  It  must  be  a  deep  satisfaction  to 
you  to  have  been  the  channel  through  which  this  help 
and  comfort  flowed.  .  .  ."  And  a  year  later  she 
writes  to  the  same  correspondent:  "We  are  having 
delightful  evenings  this  winter;  how  often  do  I  wish  you 
could  make  one  in  the  circle  around  our  tea  table  where 
sits  on  my  right  hand  every  evening  but  Sunday  Walt 
Whitman.  He  has  made  great  progress  in  health 
and  recovered  powers  of  getting  about  during  the  year 
we  have  been  here:  nevertheless  the  lameness — the 
dragging  instead  of  lifting  the  left  leg  continues;  and 
this  together  with  his  white  hair  and  beard  give  him  a 
look  of  age  curiously  contradicted  by  his  face,  which 
has  not  only  the  ruddy  freshness  but  the  full,  rounded 
contours  of  youth,  nowhere  drawn  or  wrinkled  or  sunk; 
it  is  a  face  as  indicative  of  serenity  and  goodness  and  of 
mental  and  bodily  health  as  the  brow  is  of  intellectual 
power.  But  I  notice  he  occasionally  speaks  of  himself 
as  having  a  'wounded  brain/  and  of  being  still  quite 
altered  from  his  former  self/' 
Whitman,  on  his  part,  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  after- 


xnxiv 


INTRODUCTION 

noon  sunshine  of  such  friendly  hospitality,  for  he  consid 
ered  Mrs.  Gilchrist  even  more  gifted  as  a  conversation 
alist  than  as  a  writer.  For  hints  of  the  sort  of  talk  that 
flowed  with  Mrs.  Gilchrist 's  tea  I  must  refer  the  reader 
to  her  son's  realistic  biography. 

After  two  years  of  residence  in  Philadelphia,  the 
Gilchrists  went  to  dwell  in  Boston  and  later  in  New 
York  City,  and  met  the  leaders  in  the  two  literary  capi 
tals.  From  these  addresses  the  letters  begin  again, 
after  the  natural  interruption  of  two  years.  It  is  at 
this  time  that  the  first  letters  from  Herbert  and  Beatrice 
Gilchrist  were  written.  These  are  given  in  this  volume 
to  complete  the  chain  and  to  show  how  completely 
they  were  in  sympathy  with  their  mother  in  their  love 
and  appreciation  of  Whitman.  From  New  York  they 
all  sailed  for  their  old  home  in  England  on  June  7,  1879. 
Whitman  came  the  day  before  to  wish  them  good 
voyage.  The  chief  reason  for  the  return  to  England 
seems  to  have  been  the  desire  to  send  Beatrice  to  Berne 
to  complete  her  medical  education.  After  the  return 
to  England,  or  rather  while  they  are  still  en  route  at 
Glasgow,  the  letters  begin  again. 

Several  years  of  literary  work  yet  remained  to  Mrs. 
Gilchrist.  The  chief  writings  of  these  years  were  a 
new  edition  of  the  Blake,  a  life  of  Mary  Lamb  for  the 
Eminent  Women  Series,  an  article  on  Blake  for  the 
Dictionary  of  National  Biography,  several  essays 
including  "Three  Glimpses  of  a  New  England  Village," 
and  the  "Confession  of  Faith/'  She  was  beginning 
a  careful  study  of  the  life  and  writings  of  Carlyle,  with 
the  intention  of  writing  a  life  of  her  old  friend  to  reply 

xxxv 


INTRODUCTION 

to  the  aspersions  of  Freude.  This  last  work  was,  how 
ever,  never  completed,  for  early  in  1882  some  malady 
which  rendered  her  breathing  difficult  had  already 
begun  to  cast  the  shadow  of  death  upon  her.  But  her 
faith,  long  schooled  in  the  optimism  of  "Leaves  of 
Grass/'  looked  upon  the  steadily  approaching  end  with 
calmness.  On  November  29,  1885,  she  died. 

When  Whitman  was  informed  of  her  death  by  Her 
bert  Gilchrist,  he  could  find  words  for  only  the  fol 
lowing  brief  reply  : 


December    1885. 
Camden,  United  States,  America. 
DEAR  HERBERT: 

I  have  received  your  letter.  Nothing  now  remains  but  a 
sweet  and  rich  memory  —  none  more  beautiful  all  time,  all 
life  all  the  earth  —  I  cannot  write  anything  of  a  letter  to-day. 
I  must  sit  alone  and  think. 

WALT  WHITMAN." 

Later,  in  conversations  with  Horace  Traubel  which 
the  latter  has  preserved  in  his  minute  biography  of 
Whitman,  he  was  able  to  express  his  regard  for  Mrs. 
Gilchrist  more  fully  —  "a  supreme  character  of  whom 
the  world  knows  too  little  for  its  own  good  .  .  . 
If  her  sayings  had  been  recorded  —  I  do  not  say  she 
would  pale,  but  I  do  say  she  would  equal  the  best  of 
the  women  of  our  century  —  add  something  as  great  as 
any  to  the  testimony  on  the  side  of  her  sex/'  And  at 
another  time:  "Oh!  she  was  strangely  different  from 
the  average;  entirely  herself;  as  simple  as  nature; 
true,  honest;  beautiful  as  a  tree  is  tall,  leafy,  rich,  full, 

xxxvi 


INTRODUCTION 

free— zs  a  tree.  Yet,  free  as  she  was  by  nature,  bound 
by  no  conventionalisms,  she  was  the  most  courageous 
of  women;  more  than  queenly;  of  high  aspect  in  the 
best  sense.  She  was  not  cold;  she  had  her  passions; 
I  have  known  her  to  warm  up — to  resent  something 
that  was  said;  some  impeachment  of  good  things — great 
things;  of  a  person  sometimes;  she  had  the  largest 
charity,  the  sweetest  fondest  optimism.  .  .  .  She 
was  a  radical  of  radicals;  enjoyed  all  sorts  of  high 
enthusiasms:  was  exquisitely  sensitized;  belonged  to 
the  times  yet  to  come;  her  vision  went  on  and  on. " 

This  searching  interpretation  of  her  character  wants 
only  her  artist  son's  description  of  her  personal  appear 
ance  to  make  the  final  picture  complete:  "A  little 
above  the  average  height,  she  walked  with  an  even, 
light  step.  Brown  hair  concealed  a  full  and  finely 
chiselled  brow,  and  her  hazel  eyes  bent  upon  you  a 
bright  and  penetrating  gaze.  Whilst  conversing  her 
face  became  radiant  as  with  an  experience  of  golden 
years;  humour  was  present  in  her  conversation — flecks 
of  sunshine,  such  as  sometimes  play  about  the  minds  of 
deeply  religious  natures.  Her  animated  manner  sel 
dom  flagged,  and  charmed  the  taciturn  to  talking  in 
his  or  her  best  humour.  Once,  when  speaking  to  Walt 
Whitman  of  the  beauty  of  the  human  speaking  voice, 
he  replied:  "The  voice  indicates  the  soul.  Hers,  with 
its  varied  modulations  and  blended  tones,  was  the 
tenderest,  most  musical  voice  ever  to  bless  our  ears." 

Her  death  was  a  long-lasting  shock  to  Whitman. 
"She  was  a  wonderful  woman — a  sort  of  human  miracle 
to  me.  .  .  .  Her  taking  off  ...  was  a  great 

xxxvii 


INTRODUCTION 

shock  to  me:  I  have  never  quite  got  over  it:  she  was 
near  to  me:  she  was  subtle:  her  grasp  on  my  work  was 
tremendous — so  sure,  so  all  around,  so  adequate." 
If  this  sounds  a  trifle  self-centred  in  its  criticism,  not  so 
was  the  poem  which,  in  memory  of  her,  he  wrote  as  a 
fitting  epitaph  from  the  poet  she  had  loved. 


"GOING  SOMEWHERE" 

My  science-friend,  my  noblest  woman-friend  (Now  buried 
in  an  English  grave — and  this  a  memory-leaf  for  her  dear 
sake), 

Ended  our  talk "The  sum,  concluding  all  we  know  of 

old  or  modern  learning,  intuitions  deep, 

Of  all  Geologies — Histories — of  all  Astronomy — of  Evo 
lution,  Metaphysics  all, 

Is,  that  we  all  are  onward,  onward,  speeding  slowly,  surely 
bettering, 

Life,  life  an  endless  march,  an  endless  army  (no  halt,  but, 
it  is  duly  over), 

The  world,  the  race,  the  soul — in  space  and  time  the  uni 
verses, 

All  bound  as  is  befitting  each — all  surely  going  somewhere." 


xxxvm 


THE    LETTERS 

OF 

ANNE    GILCHRIST 

AND 

WALT    WHITMAN 


A  WOMAN'S  ESTIMATE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN* 

[FROM  LETTERS  BY  ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  w.  M.  ROSSETTI.] 

June  23,  1869.  —  I  am  very  sure  you  are  right  in  your 
estimate  of  Walt  Whitman.  There  is  nothing  in  him 
that  I  shall  ever  let  go  my  hold  of.  For  me.  the  reading 

is  trjily  a  rjPwJbirth  Qfthp  SOU]. 


I  shall  quite  fearlessly  accept  your  kind  offer  of  the 
loan  of  a  complete  edition,  certain  that  great  and 
divinely  beautiful  nature  has  not,  could  not  infuse 
any  poison  into  the  wine  he  has  poured  out  for  us. 
And  as  for  what  you  specially  allude  to,  who  so  well 
able  to  bear  it  —  I  will  say,  to  judge  wisely  of  it  —  as 
one  who,  having  been  a  happy  wife  and  mother,  has 
learned  to  accept  all  things  with  tenderness,  to  feel  a 
sacredness  in  all?  Perhaps  Walt  Whitman  has  for 
gotten  —  or,  through  some  theory  in  his  head,  has 
overridden  —  the  truth  that  our  instincts  are  beautiful 
facts  of  nature,  as  well  as  our  bodies;  and  that  we  have  a 
strong  instinct  of  silence  about  some  things. 

July  1  1  .  —  I  think  it  was  very  manly  and  kind  of  you 
to  put  the  whole  of  Walt  Whitman's  poems  into  my 
hands;  and  that  I  have  no  other  friend  who  would  have 
judged  them  and  me  so  wisely  and  generously. 

I  had  not  dreamed  that  words  could  cease  to  be 

*Reprinted  from  the  Radical  for  May,  1870. 

3 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

words,  and  become  electric  streams  like  these.  I  do 
assure  you  that,  strong  as  I  am,  I  feel  sometimes  as  if  I 
had  not  bodily  strength  to  read  many  of  these  poems. 
In  the  series  headed  "Calamus/'  for  instance,  in  some 
of  the  "Songs  of  Parting,"  the  "Voice  out  of  the  Sea," 
the  poem  beginning  "Tears,  Tears/'  &c.,  there  is  such 
a  weight  of  emotion,  such  a  tension  of  the  heart,  that 
mine  refuses  to  beat  under  it, — stands  quite  still, — and 
I  am  obliged  to  lay  the  book  down  for  a  while.  Or 
again,  in  the  piece  called  "Walt  Whitman/'  and  one  or 
two  others  of  that  type,  I  am  as  one  hurried  through 
stormy  seas,  over  high  mountains,  dazed  with  sun 
light,  stunned  with  a  crowd  and  tumult  of  faces  and 
voices,  till  I  am  breathless,  bewildered,  half  dead. 
Then  come  parts  and  whole  poems  in  which  there  is 
such  calm  wisdom  and  strength  of  thought,  such  a 
cheerful  breadth  of  sunshine,  that  the  soul  bathes  in 
them  renewed  and  strengthened.  Living  impulses 
flow  out  of  these  that  make  me  exult  in  life,  yet  look 
longingly  towards  "the  superb  vistas  of  Death/' 
Those  who  admire  this  poem,  and  don't  care  for  that, 
and  talk  of  formlessness,  absence  of  metre,  £c.,  are 
quite  as  far  from  any  genuine  recognition  of  Walt  Whit 
man  as  his  bitter  detractors.  Not,  of  course,  that  all 
the  pieces  are  equal  in  power  and  beauty,  but  that  all 
are  vital;  they  grew — they  were  not  made.  We  criti 
cise  a  palace  or  a  cathedral;  but  what  is  the  good  of 
criticising  a  forest?  Are  not  the  hitherto-accepted 
masterpieces  of  literature  akin  rather  to  noble  archi 
tecture;  built  up  of  material  rendered  precious  by 
elaboration ;  planned  with  subtile  art  that  makes  beauty 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

go  hand  in  hand  with  rule  and  measure,  and  knows 
where  the  last  stone  will  come,  before  the  first  is  laid; 
the  result  stately,  fixed,  yet  such  as  might,  in  every 
particular,  have  been  different  from  what  it  is  (there 
fore  inviting  criticism),  contrasting  proudly  with  the 
careless  freedom  of  nature,  opposing  its  own  rigid 
adherence  to  symmetry  to  her  willful  dallying  with  it? 
But  not  such  is  this  book.  Seeds  brought  by  the  winds 
from  north,  south,  east,  and  west,  lying  long  in  the 
earth,  not  resting  on  it  like  the  stately  building,  but 
hid  in  and  assimilating  it,  shooting  upwards  to  be 
nourished  by  the  air  and  the  sunshine  and  the  rain 
which  beat  idly  against  that, — each  bough  and  twig  and 
leaf  growing  in  strength  and  beauty  its  own  way,  a  law 
to  itself,  yet,  with  all  this  freedom  of  spontaneous 
growth,  the  result  inevitable,  unalterable  (therefore 
setting  criticism  at  naught),  above  all  things,  vital,— 
that  is,  a  source  of  ever-generating  vitality:  such  are 
these  poems. 

"  Roots  and  leaves  themselves  alone  are  these, 
Scents  brought  to  men  and  women  from  the  wild  woods  and 

from  the  pondside, 
Breast  sorrel  and  pinks  of  love,  fingers  that  wind  around 

tighter  than  vines, 
Gushes  from  the  throats  of  birds  hid  in  the  foliage  of  trees  as 

the  sun  is  risen, 
Breezes  of  land  and  love,  breezes  set  from  living  shores  out 

to  you  on  the  living  sea, — to  you,  O  sailors! 
Frost-mellowed  berries  and  Third-month  twigs,  offered  fresh 

to  young  persons  wandering  out  in  the  fields  when  the 

winter  breaks  up, 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

Love-buds  put  before  you  and  within  you,  whoever  you  are, 

Buds  to  be  unfolded  on  the  old  terms. 

If  you  bring  the  warmth  of  the  sun  to  them,  they  will  open, 

and  bring  form,  colour,  perfume,  to  you: 
If  you  become  the  aliment  and  the  wet,  they  will  become 

flowers,  fruits,  tall  branches  and  trees." 

And  the  music  takes  good  care  of  itself,  too.  As  if  it 
could  be  otherwise!  As  if  those  "large,  melodious 
thoughts,"  those  emotions,  now  so  stormy  and  wild, 
now  of  unfathomed  tenderness  and  gentleness,  could 
fail  to  vibrate  through  the  words  in  strong,  sweeping, 
long-sustained  chords,  with  lovely  melodies  winding  in 
and  out  fitfully  amongst  them!  Listen,  for  instance, 
to  the  penetrating  sweetness,  set  in  the  midst  of  rugged 
grandeur,  of  the  passage  beginning,— 

"  I  am  he  that  walks  with  the  tender  and  growing  night; 
I  call  to  the  earth  and  sea  half  held  by  the  night." 

I  see  that  no  counting  of  syllables  will  reveal  the 
mechanism  of  the  music;  and  that  this  rushing  spon 
taneity  could  not  stay  to  bind  itself  with  the  fetters  of 
metre.  But  I  know  that  the  music  is  there,  and  that 
I  would  not  for  something  change  ears  with  those  who 
cannot  hear  it.  And  I  know  that  poetry  must  do  one 
of  two  things, — either  own  this  man  as  equal  with  her 
highest  completest  manifestors,  or  stand  aside,  and 
admit  that  there  is  something  come  into  the  world 
nobler,  diviner  than  herself,  one  that  is  free  of  the 
universe,  and  can  tell  its  secrets  as  none  before. 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

I  do  not  think  or  believe  this;  but  see  it  with  the  same 
unmistakable  defmiteness  of  perception  and  full  con 
sciousness  that  I  see  the  sun  at  this  moment  in  the  noon 
day  sky,  and  feel  his  rays  glowing  down  upon  me  as  I  write 
in  the  open  air.  What  more  can  you  ask  of  the  works 
of  a  man's  mouth  than  that  they  should  "absorb  into 
you  as  food  and  air,  to  appear  again  in  your  strength, 
gait,  face," — that  they  should  be  "fibre  and  filter  to 
your  blood/'  joy  and  gladness  to  your  whole  nature? 

I  am  persuaded  that  one  great  source  of  this  kin 
dling,  vitalizing  power — I  suppose  the  great  source — is 
the  grasp  laid  upon  the  present,  the  fearless  and  compre 
hensive  dealing  with  reality.  Hitherto  the  leaders  of 
thought  have  (except  in  science)  been  men  with  their 
faces  resolutely  turned  backwards;  men  who  have  made 
of  the  past  a  tyrant  that  beggars  and  scorns  the  present, 
hardly  seeing  any  greatness  but  what  is  shrouded  away 
in  the  twilight,  underground  past;  naming  the  present 
only  for  disparaging  comparisons,  humiliating  distrust 
that  tends  to  create  the  very  barrenness  it  complains 
of;  bidding  me  warm  myself  at  fires  that  went  out  to 
mortal  eyes  centuries  ago;  insisting,  in  religion  above 
all,  that  I  must  either  "look  through  dead  men's  eyes/' 
or  shut  my  own  in  helpless  darkness.  Poets  fancying 
themselves  so  happy  over  the  chill  and  faded  beauty 
of  the  past,  but  not  making  me  happy  at  all, — rebellious 
always  at  being  dragged  down  out  of  the  free  air  and 
sunshine  of  to-day. 

But  this  poet,  this  "athlete,  full  of  rich  words,  full  of 
joy,"  takes  you  by  the  hand,  and  turns  you  with  your 
face  straight  forwards.  The  present  is  great  enough^ 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

for  him,  because  he  is  great  enough  for  it,  It  flows 
through  him  as  a  "vast  oceanic  tide,"  lifting  up  a 
mighty  voice.  Earth,  ''the  eloquent,  dumb,  great 
mother/'  is  not  old,  has  lost  none  of  her  fresh  charms, 
none  of  her  divine  meanings;  still  bears  great  sons  and 
daughters,  if  only  theyhwould  possess  themselves  and 
accept  their  birthright, — a  richer,  not  a  poorer,  heri 
tage  than  was  ever  provided  before, — richer  by  all  the 
toil  and  suffering  of  the  generations  that  have  preceded, 
and  by  the  further  unfolding  of  the  eternal  purposes. 
Here  is  one  come  at  last  who  can  show  them  how; 
whose  songs  are  the  breath  of  a  glad,  strong,  beautiful 
life,  nourished  sufficingly,  kindled  to  unsurpassed  in 
tensity  and  greatness  by  the  gifts  of  the  present. 

"  Each  moment  and  whatever  happens  thrills  me  with  joy. " 

i 

"O  the  joy  of  my  soul  leaning  poised  on  itself, — receiving 
identity  through  materials,  and  loving  them, — observing 
characters,  and  absorbing  them! 
O  my  soul  vibrated  back  to  me  from  them! 

"O  the  gleesome  saunter  over  fields  and  hillsides! 
The  leaves  and  flowers  of  the  commonest  weeds,  the  moist, 

fresh  stillness  of  the  woods, 

The  exquisite  smell  of  the  earth  at  daybreak,  and  all  through 
the  forenoon. 

"O  to  realize  space! 

\The  plenteousness  of  all — that  there  are  no  bounds; 
To  emerge,  and  be  of  the  sky — of  the  sun  and  moon  and 
the  flying  clouds,  as  one  with  them. 

8 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

"O  thp  jny  of  suffering. — _ 

To  struggle  against  great  odds,  to  meet  enemies  undaunted, 
To  be  entirely  alone  with  them — to  find  how  much  one  can 
stand!" 


I  used  to  think  it  was  great  to  disregard  happiness, 
to  press  on  to  a  high  goal,  careless,  disdainful  of  it. 
But  now  I  see  that  there  is  nothing  so  great  as  to  be 
capable  of  happiness;  to  pluck  it  out  of  "each  moment 
and  whatever  happens";  to  find  that  one  can  ride  as 
gay  and  buoyant  on  the  angry,  menacing,  tumultuous 
waves  of  life  as  on  those  that  glide  and  glitter  under  a 
clear  sky;  that  it  is  not  defeat  and  wretchedness  which 
come  out  of  the  storm  of  adversity,  but  strength  and 
calmness. 

^See^ again,  in  the  pieces  gathered  together  under  the 
title  "Calamus,"  and  elsewhere,  what  it  mpans  for  a 
_man  to  loye,  his  fello^-r^n  Hid  you  dream  it  before? 
These  "evangel-poems  of  comrades  and  of  love" 
speak,  with  the  abiding,  penetrating  power  of  pro 
phecy,  of  a  "new  and  superb  friendship";  speak  not  as 
beautiful  dreams,  unrealizable  aspirations  to  be  laid 
aside  in  sober  moods,  because  they  breathe  out  what  now 
glows  within  the  poet's  own  breast,  and  flows  out  in 
action  toward  the  men  around  him.  Had  ever  any 
land  before  her  poet,  not  only  to  concentrate  within 
himself  her  life,  and,  when  she  kindled  with  anger 
against  her  children  who  were  treacherous  to  the  cause 
her  life  is  bound  up  with,  to  announce  and  justify  her 
terrible  purpose  in  words  of  unsurpassable  grandeur 
(as  in  the  poem  beginning,  "Rise,  O  days,  from  your 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

fathomless  deeps"),  but  also  to  go  and  with  his  own 
hands  dress  the  wounds,  with  his  powerful  presence 
soothe  and  sustain  and  nourish  her  suffering  soldiers, — 
hundreds  of  them,  thousands,  tens  of  thousands, — by 
day  and  by  night,  for  weeks,  months,  years? 

"  I  sit  by  the  restless  all  the  dark  night;  some  are  so  young, 
'Some  suffer  so  much:  I  recall  the  experience  sweet  and  sad. 
Many  a  soldier's  loving  arms  about  this  neck  have  crossed 

and  rested, 
Many  a  soldier's  kiss  dwells  on  these  bearded  lips: — " 

Kisses,  that  touched  with  the  fire  of  a  strange,  new, 
undying  eloquence  the  lips  that  received  them!  The 
most  transcendent  genius  could  not,  untaught  by  that 
"experience  sweet  and  sad/'  have  breathed  out  hymns 
for  her  dead  soldiers  of  such  ineffably  tender,  sorrowful, 
yet  triumphant  beauty. 

But  the  present  spreads  before  us  other  things  besides 
those  of  which  it  is  easy  to  see  the  greatness  and  beauty; 
and  the  poet  would  leave  us  to  learn  the  hardest  part  of 
our  lesson  unhelped  if  he  took  no  heed  of  these;  and 
would  be  unfaithful  to  his  calling,  as  interpreter  of  man 
to  himself  and  of  the  scheme  of  things  in  relation  to 
him,  if  he  did  not  accept  all — if  he  did  not  teach  "the 
great  lesson  of  reception,  neither  preference  nor  denial." 
If  he  feared  to  stretch  out  the  hand,  not  of  condescend 
ing  pity,  but  of  fellowship,  to  the  degraded,  criminal, 
foolish,  despised,  knowing  that  they  are  only  laggards 
in  "the  great  procession  winding  along  the  roads  of  the 
universe,"  "the  far-behind  to  come  on  in  their  turn," 

10 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

knowing  the  "amplitude  of  Time,"  how  could  he  roll 
the  stone  of  contempt  off  the  heart  as  he  does,  and  cut 
the  strangling  knot  of  the  problem  of  inherited  vicious- 
ness  and  degradation?  And,  if  he  were  not  bold  and 
true  to  the  utmost,  and  did  not  own  in  himself  the 
threads  of  darkness  mixed  in  with  the  threads  of  light, 
and  own  it  with  the  same  strength  and  directness  that 
he  tells  of  the  light,  and  not  in  those  vague  generalities 
that  everybody  uses,  and  nobody  means,  in  speaking 
on  this  head, — in  the  worst,  germs  of  all  that  is  in  the 
best;  in  the  best,  germs  of  all  that  is  in  the  worst, — 
the  brotherhood  of  the  human  race  would  be  a  mere 
flourish  of  rhetoric.  And  brotherhood  is  naught  if  it 
does  not  bring  brother's  love  along  with  it.  If  the 
poet's  heart  were  not  "a  measureless  ocean  of  love" 
that  seeks  the  lips  and  would  quench  the  thirst  of  all, 
he  were  not  the  one  we  have  waited  for  so  long.  Who 
but  he  could  put  at  last  the  right  meaning  into  that  word 
"democracy,"  which  has  been  made  to  bear  such  a 
burthen  of  incongruous  notions? 

"By  God!  I  will  have  nothing  that  all  cannot  have  their 
counterpart  of  on  the  same  terms!" 

flashing  it  forth  like  a  banner,  making  it  draw  the 
instant  allegiance  of  every  man  and  woman  who  loves 
justice.  All  occupations,  however  homely,  all  develop 
ments  of  the  activities  of  man,  need  the  poet's  recog 
nition,  because  every  man  needs  the  assurance  that  for 
him  also  the  materials  out  of  which  to  build  up  a  great 
and  satisfying  life  lie  to  hand,  the  sole  magic  in  the 

n 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

use  of  them,  all  of  the  right  stuff  in  the  right  hands. 
Hence  those  patient  enumerations  of  every  conceivable 
kind  of  industry:— 

"  In  them  far  more  than  you  estimated — in  them  far  less 
also." 

Far  more  as  a  means,  next  to  nothing  as  an  end :  whereas 
we  are  wont  to  take  it  the  other  way,  and  think  the 
result  something,  but  the  means  a  weariness.  Out  of 
all  come  strength,  and  the  cheerfulness  of  strength.  I 
murmured  not  a  little,  to  say  the  truth,  under  these 
enumerations,  at  first.  But  now  I  think  that  not  only 
is  their  purpose  a  justification,  but  that  the  musical 
ear  and  vividness  of  perception  of  the  poet  have  enabled 
him  to  perform  this  task  also  with  strength  and  grace, 
and  that  they  are  harmonious  as  well  as  necessary  parts 
of  the  great  whole. 

Nor  do  I  sympathize  with  those  who  grumble  at  the 
unexpected  words  that  turn  up  now  and  then.  A 
quarrel  with  words  is  always,  more  or  less,  a  quarrel 
with  meanings;  and  here  we  are  to  be  as  genial  and  as 
wide  as  nature,  and  quarrel  with  nothing.  If  the  thing 
a  word  stands  for  exists  by  divine  appointment  (and 
what  does  not  so  exist?),  the  word  need  never  be 
ashamed  »of  itself;  the  shorter  and  more  direct,  the 
better.  It  is  a  gain  to  make  friends  with  it,  and  see 
it  in  good  company.  Here  at  all  events,  "poetic 
diction"  would  not  serve, — not  pretty,  soft,  colour 
less  words,  laid  by  in  lavender  for  the  special  uses  of 
poetry,  that  have  had  none  of  the  wear  and  tear  of 

12 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

daily  life;  but  such  as  have  stood  most,  as  tell  of 
human  heart-beats,  as  fit  closest  to  the  sense,  and  have 
taken  deep  hues  of  association  from  the  varied  experi 
ences  of  life — those  are  the  words  wanted  here.  We 
only  ask  to  seize  and  be  seized  swiftly,  over-masteringly, 
by  the  great  meanings.  We  see  with  the  eyes  of  the 
soul,  listen  with  the  ears  of  the  soul;  the  poor  old  words 
that  have  served  so  many  generations  for  purposes,  good, 
bad,  and  indifferent,  and  become  warped  and  blurred 
in  the  process,  grow  young  again,  regenerate,  translu 
cent.  It  is  not  mere  delight  they  give  us, — that  the 
"sweet  singers/'  with  their  subtly  wrought  gifts,  their 
mellifluous  speech,  can  give  too  in  their  degree;  it  is 
such  life  and  health  as  enable  us  to  pluck  delights 
for  ourselves  out  of  every  hour  of  the  day,  and  taste 
the  sunshine  that  ripened  the  corn  in  the  crust  we  eat 
(I  often  seem  to  myself  to  do  that). 

Out  of  the  scorn  of  the  present  came  skepticism;  and 
out  of  the  large,  loving  acceptance  of  it  comes  faith. 
If  now  is  so  great  and  beautiful,  I  need  no  arguments  to 
make  me  believe  that  the  nows  of  the  past  and  of  the 
future  were  and  will  be  great  and  beautiful,  too. 

"  I  know  I  am  deathless. 

I  know  this  orbit  of  mine  cannot  be  swept  by  the  carpenter's 
compass. 

I  know  I  shall  not  pass,  like  a  child's  carlacue  cut  with  a 
burnt  stick  at  night. 

I  know  I  am  august. 

I  do  not  trouble  my  spirit  to  vindicate  itself  or  be  under 
stood. 

13 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

"My  foothold  is  tenoned  and  mortised  in  granite: 
I  laugh  at  what  you  call  dissolution, 
And  I  know  the  amplitude  of  Time." 

"  No  array  of  terms  can  say  how  much  I  am  at  peace  about 
God  and  Death." 

You  argued  rightly  that  my  confidence  would  not  be 
betrayed  by  any  of  the  poems  in  this  book.  None  of 
them  troubled  me  even  for  a  moment ;  because  I  saw  at 
a  glance  that  it  was  not,  as  men  had  supposed,  the 
heights  brought  down  to  the  depths,  but  the  depths 
lifted  up  level  with  the  sunlit  heights,  that  they  might 
become  clear  and  sunlit,  too.  Always,  for  a  woman,  a 
veil  woven  out  of  her  own  soul — never  touched  upon 
even,  with  a  rough  hand,  by  this  poet.  But/for  a  man, 
a  daring,  fearless  pride  in  himself,  not  a  mock-modesty 
woven  out  of  delusions — a  very  poor  imitation  of  a 
woman's.  Do  they  not  see  that  this  fearless  pride, 
this  complete  acceptance  of  themselves,  is  needful  for 
her  pride,  her  justification?  What!  is  it  all  so  ignoble, 
so  base,  that  it  will  not  bear  the  honest  light  of  speech 
from  lips  so  gifted  with  "the  divine  power  to  use 
words?  "  Then  what  hateful,  bitter  humiliation  for  her, 
to  have  to  give  herself  up  to  the  reality !  Do  you  think 
there  is  ever  a  bride  who  does  not  taste  more  or  less 
this  bitterness  in  her  cup?  But  who  put  it  there? 
It  must  surely  be  man's  fault,  not  God's,  that  she  has 
to  say  to  herself,  "Soul,  look  another  way — you  have 
no  part  in  this.  Motherhood  is  beautiful,  fatherhood  is 
beautiful;  but  the  dawn  of  fatherhood  and  motherhood 
is  not  beautiful."  Do  they  really  think  that  God  is 

14 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

ashamed  of  what  he  has  made  and  appointed?  And, 
if  not,  surely  it  is  somewhat  superfluous  that  they  should 
undertake  to  be  so  for  him. 

"  The  full-spread  pride  of  man  is  calming  and  excellent  to  the 
soul," 

Of  a  woman  above  all.  It  is  true  that  instinct  of  silence 
I  spoke  of  is  a  beautiful,  imperishable  part  of  nature,  too. 
But  it  is  not  beautiful  when  it  means  an  ignominious 
shame  brooding  darkly.  Shame  is  like  a  very  flexible 
veil,  that  follows  faithfully  the  shape  of  what  it  covers, 
— beautiful  when  it  hides  a  beautiful  thing,  ugly  when 
it  hides  an  ugly  one.  It  has  not  covered  what  was 
beautiful  here;  it  has  covered  a  mean  distrust  of  a 
man's  self  and  of  his  Creator.  It  was  needed  that  this 
silence,  this  evil  spell,  should  for  once  be  broken,  and 
the  daylight  let  in,  that  the  dark  cloud  lying  under 
might  be  scattered  to  the  winds.  It  was  needed  that 
one  who  could  here  indicate  for  us  "the  path  between 
reality  and  the  soul"  should  speak.  That  is  what 
these  beautiful,  despised  poems,  the  "Children  of 
Adam/'  do,  read  by  the  light  that  glows  out  of  the 
rest  of  the  volume:  light  of  a  clear,  strong  faith  in  God, 
of  an  unfathomably  deep  and  tender  love  for  humanity, 
— light  shed  out  of  a  soul  that  is  "possessed  of  itself." 

"Natural  life  of  me  faithfully  praising  things, 
Corroborating  for  ever  the  triumph  of  things. " 

Now  silence  may  brood  again ;  but  lovingly,  happily, 
as  protecting  what  is  beautiful,  not  as  hiding  what  is 

15 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

unbeautiful;  consciously  enfolding  a  sweet  and  sacred 
mystery — august  even  as  the  mystery  of  Death,  the 
dawn  as  the  setting:  kindred  grandeurs,  which  to  eyes 
that  are  opened  shed  a  hallowing  beauty  on  all  that 
surrounds  and  preludes  them. 

"O  vast  and  well-veiled  Death! 

"O  the  beautiful  touch  of  Death,  soothing  and  benumbing  a 
few  moments,  for  reasons!" 

If 

He  who  can  thus  look  with  fearlessness  at  the  beauty 
of  Death  may  well  dare  to  teach  us  to  look  with  fearless, 
untroubled  eyes  at  the  perfect  beauty  of  Love  in  all  its 
appointed  realizations.  Now  none  need  turn  away 
their  thoughts  with  pain  or  shame;  though  only  lovers 
and  poets  may  say  what  they  will, — the  lover  to  his 
own,  the  poet  to  all,  because  all  are  in  a  sense  his  own. 
None  need  fear  that  this  will  be  harmful  to  the  woman. 
How  should  there  be  such  a  flaw  in  the  scheme  of 
creation  that,  for  the  two  with  whom  there  is  no  com 
plete  life,  save  in  closest  sympathy,  perfect  union,  what 
is  natural  and  happy  for  the  one  should  be  baneful  to 
the  other?  The  utmost  faithful  freedom  of  speech, 
such  as  there  is  in  these  poems,  creates  in  her  no  thought 
or  feeling  that  shuns  the  light  of  heaven,  none  that  are 
not  as  innocent  and  serenely  fair  as  the  flowers  that 
grow;  would  lead,  not  to  harm,  but  to  such  deep  and 
tender  affection  as  makes  harm  or  the  thought  of  harm 
simply  impossible.  Far  more  beautiful  care  than  man 
is  aware  of  has  been  taken  in  the  making  of  her,  to  fit 

16 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

her  to  be  his  mate.  God  has  taken  such  care  that  loe 
need  take  none;  none,  that  is,  which  consists  in  disguise- 
ment,  insincerity,  painful  hushing-up  of  his  true,  grand, 
initiating  nature.  And,  as  regards  the  poet's  utter 
ances,  which,  it  might  be  thought,  however  harmless  in 
themselves,  would  prove  harmful  by  falling  into  the 
hands  of  those  for  whom  they  are  manifestly  unsuit 
able,  I  believe  that  even  here  fear  is  needless.  For 
her  innocence  is  folded  round  with  such  thick  folds  of 
ignorance,  till  the  right  way  and  time  for  it  to  accept 
knowledge,  that  what  is  unsuitable  is  also  unintelligible 
to  her;  and,  if  no  dark  shadow  from  without  be  cast 
on  the  white  page  by  misconstruction  or  by  foolish 
mystery  and  hiding  away  of  it,  no  hurt  will  ensue  from 
its  passing  freely  through  her  hands.  .  . 

This  is  so,  though  it  is  little  understood  or  realized  by 
men.  Wives  and  mothers  will  learn  through  the  poet 
that  there  is  rejoicing  grandeur  and  beauty  there  wherein 
their  hearts  have  so  longed  to  find  it;  where  foolish 
men,  traitors  to  themselves,  poorly  comprehending  the 
grandeur  of  their  own  or  the  beauty  of  a  woman's 
nature,  have  taken  such  pains  to  make  her  believe  there 
was  none, — nothing  but  miserable  discrepancy. 

One  of  the  hardest  things  to  make  a  child  understand 
is,  that  down  underneath  your  feet,  if  you  go  far  enough, 
you  come  to  blue  sky  and  stars  again;  that  there  really 
is  no  "down"  for  the  world,  but  only  in  every  direction 
an  "up."  And  that  this  is  an  all-embracing  truth, 
including  within  its  scope  every  created  thing,  and, 
with  deepest  significance,  every  part,  faculty,  attrib 
ute,  healthful  impulse,  mind,  and  body  of  a  man 

17 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

(each  and  all  facing  towards  and  related  to  the  Infinite 
on  every  side),  is  what  we  grown  children  find  it  hardest 
to  realize,  too.  Novalis  said,  "We  touch  heaven  when 
we  lay  our  hand  on  the  human  body";  which,  if  it 
mean  anything,  must  mean  an  ample  justification  of 
the  poet  who  has  dared  to  be  the  poet  of  the  body  as 
well  as  of  the  soul, — to  treat  it  with  the  freedom  and 
grandeur  of  an  ancient  sculptor. 

"Not  physiognomy  alone  nor  brain  alone  is  worthy  of  the 
muse: — I  say  the  form  complete  is  worthier  far. 

"  These  are  not  parts  and  poems  of  the  body  only,  but  of  the 
soul. 

"O,  I  say  now  these  are  soul." 

But  while  Novalis — who  gazed  at  the  truth  a  long 
way  off,  up  in  the  air,  in  a  safe,  comfortable,  German 
fashion — has  been  admiringly  quoted  by  high  authori 
ties,  the  great  American  who  has  dared  to  rise  up  and 
wrestle  with  it,  and  bring  it  alive  and  full  of  power  in 
the  midst  of  us,  has  been  greeted  with  a  very  different 
kind  of  reception,  as  has  happened  a  few  times  before 
in  the  world  in  similar  cases.  Yet  I  feel  deeply  per 
suaded  that  a  perfectly  fearless,  candid,  ennobling 
treatment  of  the  life  of  the  body  (so  inextricably  inter 
twined  with,  so  potent  in  its  influence  on  the  life  of  the 
soul)  will  prove  of  inestimable  value  to  all  earnest  and 
aspiring  natures,  impatient  of  the  folly  of  the  long- 
prevalent  belief  that  it  is  because  of  the  greatness  of  the 
spirit  that  it  has  learned  to  despise  the  body,  and  to 

18 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

ignore  its  influences;  knowing  well  that  it  is,  on  the 
contrary,  just  because  the  spirit  is  not  great  enough,  not 
healthy  and  vigorous  enough,  to  transfuse  itself  into 
the  life  of  the  body,  elevating  that  and  making  it  holy 
by  its  own  triumphant  intensity;  knowing,  too,  how  the 
body  avenges  this  by  dragging  the  soul  down  to  the  level 
assigned  itself.  Whereas  the  spirit  must  lovingly  em 
brace  the  body,  as  the  roots  of  a  tree  embrace  the  ground, 
drawing  thence  rich  nourishment,  warmth,  impulse. 
Or,  rather,  the  body  is  itself  the  root  of  the  soul — that 
whereby  it  grows  and  feeds.  The  great  tide  of  healthful 
life  that  carries  all  before  it  must  surge  through  the 
whole  man,  not  beat  to  and  fro  in  one  corner  of  his  brain. 

"O  the  life  of  my  senses  and  flesh,  transcending  my  senses 
and  flesh !" 

For  the  sake  of  all  that  is  highest,  a  truthful  recog 
nition  of  this  life,  and  especially  of  that  of  it  which  un 
derlies  the  fundamental  ties  of  humanity — the  love  of 
husband  and  wife,  fatherhood,  motherhood — is  needed. 
Religion  needs  it,  now  at  last  alive  to  the  fact  that  the 
basis  of  all  true  worship  is  comprised  in  "the  great 
lesson  of  reception,  neither  preference  nor  denial/' 
interpreting,  loving,  rejoicing  in  all  that  is  created, 
fearing  and  despising  nothing. 

"  I  accept  reality,  and  dare  not  question  it." 

The  dignity  of  a  man,  the  pride  and  affection  of  a 
woman,  need  it  too.  And  so  does  the  intellect.  For 
science  has  opened  up  such  elevating  views  of  the 

'9 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

mystery  of  material  existence  that,  if  poetry  had  not 
bestirred  herself  to  handle  this  theme  in  her  own  way, 
she  would  have  been  left  behind  by  her  plodding  sister. 
Science  knows  that  matter  is  not,  as  we  fancied,  cer 
tain  stolid  atoms  which  the  forces  of  nature  vibrate 
through  and  push  and  pull  about;  but  that  the  forces 
and  the  atoms  are  one  mysterious,  imperishable  iden 
tity,  neither  conceivable  without  the  other.  She 
knows,  as  well  as  the  poet,  that  destructibility  is  not 
one  of  nature's  words;  that  it  is  only  the  relationship  of 
things — tangibility,  visibility — that  are  transitory. 
She  knows  that  body  and  soul  are  one,  and  proclaims  it 
undauntedly,  regardless,  and  rightly  regardless,  of  in 
ferences.  Timid  onlookers,  aghast,  think  it  means 
that  soul  is  body — means  death  for  the  soul.  But  the 
poet  knows  it  means  body  is  soul— the  great  whole 
imperishable;  in  life  and  in  death  continually  changing 
substance,  always  retaining  identity.  For,  if  the  man 
of  science  is  happy  about  the  atoms,  if  he  is  not  baulked 
or  baffled  by  apparent  decay  or  destruction,  but  can 
see  far  enough  into  the  dimness  to  know  that  not  only 
is  each  atom  imperishable,  but  that  its  endowments, 
characteristics,  affinities,  electric  and  other  attractions 
and  repulsions — however  suspended,  hid,  dormant, 
masked,  when  it  enters  into  new  combinations — remain 
unchanged,  be  it  for  thousands  of  years,  and,  when  it 
is  again  set  free,  manifest  themselves  in  the  old  way, 
shall  not  the  poet  be  happy  about  the  vital  whole? 
shall  the  highest  force,  the  vital,  that  controls  and 
compels  into  complete  subservience  for  its  own  pur 
poses  the  rest,  be  the  only  one  that  is  destructible?  and 

20 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

the  love  and  thought  that  endow  the  whole  be  less 
enduring  than  the  gravitating,  chemical,  electric 
powers  that  endow  its  atoms?  But  identity  is  the 
essence  of  love  and  thought — I  still  I,  you  still  you. 
Certainly  no  man  need  ever  again  be  scared  by  the 
"dark  hush"  and  the  little  handful  of  refuse. 

"  You  are  not  scattered  to  the  winds — you  gather  certainly 
and  safely  around  yourself." 

"Sure  as  Life  holds  all  parts  together,  Death  holds  all  parts 
together." 

"All  goes  onward  and  outward:  nothing  collapses." 

"What  I  am,  I  am  of  my  body;  and  what  I  shall  be,  I  shall 
be  of  my  body." 

"  The  body  parts  away  at  last  for  the  journeys  of  the  soul." 

Science  knows  that  whenever  a  thing  passes  from  a 
solid  to  a  subtle  air,  power  is  set  free  to  a  wider  scope 
of  action.  The  poet  knows  it  too,  and  is  dazzled  as  he 
turns  his  eyes  toward  "the  superb  vistas  of  death." 
He  knows  that  "the  perpetual  transfers  and  promo 
tions"  and  "the  amplitude  of  time"  are  for  a  man  as 
well  as  for  the  earth.  The  man  of  science,  with  un 
wearied,  self-denying  toil,  finds  the  letters  and  joins 
them  into  words.  But  the  poet  alone  can  make  com 
plete  sentences.  The  man  of  science  furnishes  the 
premises;  but  it  is  the  poet  who  draws  the  final  con 
clusion.  Both  together  are  "swiftly  and  surely  pre 
paring  a  future  greater  than  all  the  past."  But,  while 

21 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 
i 

the  man  of  science  bequeaths  to  it  the  fruits  of  his  toil, 
the  poet,  this  mighty  poet,  bequeaths  himself — "  Death 
making  him  really  undying."  He  will  "stand  as  nigh 
as  the  nighest"  to  these  men  and  women.  For  he 
taught  them,  in  words  which  breathe  out  his  very  heart 
and  soul  into  theirs,  that  "love  of  comrades"  which, 
like  the  "soft-born  measureless  light,"  makes  whole 
some  and  fertile  every  spot  it  penetrates  to,  light 
ing  up  dark  social  and  political  problems,  and  kindling 
into  a  genial  glow  that  great  heart  of  justice  which  is 
the  life-source  of  Democracy.  He,  the  beloved  friend 
of  all,  initiated  for  them  a  "new  and  superb  friendship"; 
whispered  that  secret  of  a  godlike  pride  in  a  man's  self, 
and  a  perfect  trust  in  woman,  whereby  their  love  for 
each  other,  no  longer  poisoned  and  stifled,  but  basking 
in  the  light  of  God's  smile,  and  sending  up  to  him  a 
perfume  of  gratitude,  attains  at  last  a  divine  and  ten 
der  completeness.  He  gave  a  faith-compelling  ut 
terance  to  that  "wisdom  which  is  the  certainty  of  the 
reality  and  immortality  of  things,  and  of  the  excellence 
of  things."  Happy  America,  that  he  should  be  her  son ! 
One  sees,  indeed,  that  only  a  young  giant  of  a  nation 
could  produce  this  kind  of  greatness,  so  full  of  the 
ardour,  the  elasticity,  the  inexhaustible  vigour  and 
freshness,  the  joyousness,  the  audacity  of  youth.  But 
I,  for  one,  cannot  grudge  anything  to  America.  For, 
after  all,  the  young  giant  is  the  old  English  giant — the 
great  English  race  renewing  its  youth  in  that  magnifi 
cent  land,  "Mexican-breathed,  Arctic-braced,"  and 
girding  up  its  loins  "o  start  on  a  new  career  that  shall 
match  with  the  greatness  of-  the  new  home. 

22 


A  CONFESSION  OF  FAITH* 

"Of  genius  in  the  Fine  Arts,"  wrote  Wordsworth, 
"the  only  infallible  sign  is  the  widening  the  sphere  of 
human  sensibility  for  the  delight,  honour,  and  benefit 
of  human  nature.  Genius  is  the  introduction  of  a  new 
element  into  the  intellectual  universe,  or,  if  that  be 
not  allowed,  it  is  the  application  of  powers  to  objects  on 
which  they  had  not  before  been  exercised,  or  the 
employment  of  them  in  such  a  manner  as  to  produce 
effects  hitherto  unknown.  What  is  all  this  but  an 
advance  or  conquest  made  by  the  soul  of  the  poet?  Is 
it  to  be  supposed  that  the  reader  can  make  progress  of 
this  kind  like  an  Indian  prince  or  general  stretched  on 
his  palanquin  and  borne  by  slaves?  No;  he  is  invig 
orated  and  inspirited  by  his  leader  in  order  that  he 
may  exert  himself,  for  he  cannot  proceed  in  quiescence, 
he  cannot  be  carried  like  a  dead  weight.  Therefore  to 
create  taste  is  to  call  forth  and  bestow  power." 

A  great  poet,  then,  is  "a  challenge  and  summons"; 
and  the  question  first  of  all  is  not  whether  we  like  or  dis 
like  him,  but  whether  we  are  capable  of  meeting  that 
challenge,  of  stepping  out  of  our  habitual  selves  to 
answer  that  summons.  He  works  on  Nature's  plan: 
Nature,  who  teaches  nothing  but  supplies  infinite  ma 
terial  to  learn  from;  who  never  preaches  but  drives 

*Reprinted  from  "Anne  Gilchrist,  Her  Life  and  Writings,"  by  her  son  Herbert  H.  Gilchrist — 
London, 1887. 

23 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

home  her  meanings  by  the  resistless  eloquence  of  effects. 
Therefore  the  poet  makes  greater  demands  upon  his 
reader  than  any  other  man.  For  it  is  not  a  question  of 
swallowing  his  ideas  or  admiring  his  handiwork  merely, 
but  of  seeing,  feeling,  enjoying,  as  he  sees,  feels,  enjoys. 
"The  messages  of  great  poems  to  each  man  and  wo 
man  are/'  says  Walt  Whitman,  "come  to  us  on  equal 
terms,  only  then  can  you  understand  us.  We  are  no 
better  than  you;  what  we  enclose  you  enclose,  what  we 
enjoy  you  may  enjoy"-— no  better  than  you  potentially, 
that  is;  but  if  you  would  understand  us  the  potential 
must  become  the  actual,  the  dormant  sympathies  must 
awaken  and  broaden,  the  dulled  perceptions  clear 
themselves  and  let  in  undreamed  of  delights,  the  won 
der-working  imagination  must  respond,  the  ear  attune 
itself,  the  languid  soul  inhale  large  draughts  of  love 
and  hope  and  courage,  those  "empyreal  airs"  that  vital 
ize  the  poet's  world.  No  wonder  the  poet  is  long  in 
finding  his  audience;  no  wonder  he  has  to  abide  the 
"inexorable  tests  of  Time, "  which,  if  indeed  he  be  great, 
slowly  turns  the  handful  into  hundreds,  the  hundreds 
into  thousands,  and  at  last  having  done  its  worst,  grud 
gingly  passes  him  on  into  the  ranks  of  the  Immortals. 

Meanwhile  let  not  the  handful  who  believe  that  such 
a  destiny  awaits  a  man  of  our  time  cease  to  give  a  reason 
for  the  faith  that  is  in  them. 

So  far  as  the  suffrages  of  his  own  generation  go  Walt 
Whitman  may,  like  Wordsworth,  tell  of  the  "love,  the 
admiration,  the  indifference,  the  slight,  the  aversion, 
and  even  the  contempt"  with  which  his  poems  have 
been  received;  but  the  love  and  admiration  are  from 

24 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

even  a  smaller  number,  the  aversion,  the  contempt 
more  vehement,  more  universal  and  persistent  than 
Wordsworth  ever  encountered.  For  the  American 
is  a  more  daring  innovator;  he  cuts  loose  from  prece 
dent,  is  a  very  Columbus  who  has  sailed  forth  alone  on 
perilous  seas  to  seek  new  shores,  to  seek  a  new  world 
for  the  soul,  a  world  that  shall  give  scope  and  elevation 
and  beauty  to  the  changed  and  changing  events,  aspira 
tions,  conditions  of  modern  life.  To  new  aims,  new 
methods;  therefore  let  not  the  reader  approach  these 
poems  as  a  judge,  comparing,  testing,  measuring  by 
what  has  gone  before,  but  as  a  willing  learner,  an  un 
prejudiced  seeker  for  whatever  may  delight  and  nourish 
and  exalt  the  soul.  Neither  let  him  be  abashed  nor 
daunted  by  the  weight  of  adverse  opinion,  the  contempt 
and  denial  which  have  been  heaped  upon  the  great 
American  even  though  it  be  the  contempt  and  denial 
of  the  capable,  the  cultivated,  the  recognized  authori 
ties;  for  such  is  the  usual  lot  of  the  pioneer  in  whatever 
field.  In  religion  it  is  above  all  to  the  earnest  and  con 
scientious  believer  that  the  Reformer  has  appeared  a 
blasphemer,  and  in  the  world  of  literature  it  is  equally 
natural  that  the  most  careful  student,  that  the -warmest 
lover  of  the  accepted  masterpieces,  should  be  the  most 
hostile  to  one  who  forsakes  the  methods  by  which,  or  at 
any  rate,  in  company  with  which,  those  triumphs  have 
been  achieved.  "But/'  said  the  wise  Goethe,  "I  will 
listen  to  any  man's  convictions;  you  may  keep  your 
doubts,  your  negations  to  yourself,  I  have  plenjty  of 
my  own."  For  heartfelt  convictions  are  rare  things. 
Therefore  I  make  bold  to  indicate  the  scope  and  source 

25 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

of  power  in  Walt  Whitman's  writings,  starting  from  no 
wider  ground  than  their  effect  upon  an  individual  mind. 
It  is  not  criticism  I  have  to  offer;  least  of  all  any  dis 
cussion  of  the  question  of  form  or  formlessness  in  these 
poems,  deeply  convinced  as  I  am  that  when  great 
meanings  and  great  emotions  are  expressed  with  cor 
responding  power,  literature  has  done  its  best,  call  it 
what  you  please.  But  my  aim  is  rather  to  suggest 
such  trains  of  thought,  such  experience  of  life  as  having 
served  to  put  me  en  rapport  with  this  poet  may  haply 
find  here  and  there  a  reader  who  is  thereby  helped  to 
the  same  end.  Hence  I  quote  just  as  freely  from  the 
prose  (especially  from  "Democratic  Vistas"  and  the 
preface  to  the  first  issue  of  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  1855) 
as  from  his  poems,  and  more  freely,  perhaps,  from  those 
parts  that  have  proved  a  stumbling-block  than  from  those 
whose  conspicuous  beauty  assures  them  acceptance. 

Fifteen  years  ago,  with  feelings  partly  of  indifference, 
partly  of  antagonism — for  I  had  heard  none  but  ill 
words  of  them — I  first  opened  Walt  Whitman's  poems. 
But  as  I  read  I  became  conscious  of  receiving  the  most 
powerful  influence  that  had  ever  come  to  me  from  any 
source.  What  was  the  spell?  It  was  that  in  them 
humanity  has,  in  a  new  sense,  found  itself;  for  the  first 
time  has  dared  to  accept  itself  without  disparagement, 
without  reservation.  For  the  first  time  an  unrestricted 
faith  in  all  that  is  and  in  the  issues  of  all  that  happens 
has  burst  forth  triumphantly  into  song. 

"...    The  rapture  of  the  hallelujah  sent 
Ffom  all  that  breathes  and  is     .     .     . " 

26 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

rings  through  these  poems.  They  carry  up  into  the 
region  of  Imagination  and  Passion  those  vaster  and 
more  profound  conceptions  of  the  universe  and  of  man 
reached  by  centuries  of  that  indomitably  patient  organ 
ized  search  for  knowledge,  that  "  skilful  cross-questioning 
of  things"  called  science. 

"O  truth  of  the  earth  I  am  determined  to  press  my  way 

toward  you. 

Sound  your  voice!    I  scale  the  mountains,  I  dive  in  the  sea 
after  you," 

cried  science;  and  the  earth  and  the  sky  have  answered, 
and  continue  inexhaustibly  to  answer  her  appeal.  And 
now  at  last  the  day  dawns  which  Wordsworth  prophe 
sied  of:  "The  man  of  science//  he  wrote,  "seeks  truth 
as  a  remote  and  unknown  benefactor;  he  cherishes  and 
loves  it  in  his  solitude.  The  Poet,  singing  a  song  in 
which  all  human  beings  join  with  him,  rejoices  in  the 
presence  of  truth  as  our  visible  friend  and  hourly  com 
panion.  Poetry  is  the  breath  and  finer  spirit  of  all 
knowledge;  it  is  the  impassioned  expression  which  is  in 
the  countenance  of  all  science,  it  is  the  first  and  last  of 
all  knowledge;  it  is  immortal  as  the  heart  of  man.  If 
the  labours  of  men  of  science  should  ever  create  any 
material  revolution,  direct  or  indirect,  in  our  condition, 
and  in  the  impressions  which  we  habitually  receive,  the 
Poet  will  then  sleep  no  more  than  at  present;  he  will 
be  ready  to  follow  the  steps  of  the  man  of  science  not 
only  in  those  general  indirect  effects,  but  he  will  be  at 
his  side  carrying  sensation  into  the  midst  of  the  objects 
of  science  itself.  If  the  time  should  ever  come  when 

27 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

what  is  now  called  science,  thus  familiarized  to  man, 
shall  be  ready  to  put  on,  as  it  were,  a  form  of  flesh  and 
blood,  the  Poet  will  lend  his  divine  spirit  to  a'd  the 
transfiguration,  and  will  welcome  the  being  thus  pro 
duced  as  a  dear  and  genuine  inmate  of  the  household  of 
man."  That  time  approaches:  a  new  heaven  and  a 
new  earth  await  us  when  the  knowledge  grasped  by 
science  is  realized,  conceived  as  a  whole,  related  to  the 
world  within  us  by  the  shaping  spirit  of  imagination. 
Not  in  vain,  already,  for  this  Poet  have  they  pierced 
the  darkness  of  the  past,  and  read  here  and  there  a 
word  of  the  earth's  history  before  human  eyes  beheld 
it;  each  word  of  infinite  significance,  because  involving 
in  it  secrets  of  the  whole.  A  new  anthem  of  the  slow, 
vast,  mystic  dawn  of  life  he  sings  in  the  name  of 
humanity. 

"I  am  an  acme  of  things  accomplished,  and  I  am  an  encloser 
of  things  to  be. 

"My  feet  strike  an  apex  of  the  apices  of  the  stairs; 
On  every  step  bunches  of  ages,  and  larger  bunches  between 

the  steps; 
All  below  duly  travell'd  and  still  I  mount  and  mount. 

"  Rise  after  rise  bow  the  phantoms  behind  me: 
Afar  down  I  see  the  huge  first  Nothing — I  know 
I  was  even  there; 
I  waited  unseen  and  always,  and  slept  through  the  lethargic 

mist, 
And  took  my  time,  and  took  no  hurt  from  the  fetid  carbon. 

"  Long  I  was  hugg'd  close — long  and  long. 

28 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

"Immense  have  been  the  preparations  for  me, 
Faithful  and  friendly  the  arms  that  have  help'd  me. 
Cycles  ferried  my  cradle,  rowing  and  rowing  like  cheerful 

boatmen; 

For  room  to  me  stars  kept  aside  in  their  own  rings, 
They  sent  influences  to  look  after  what  was  to  hold  me. 

''Before  I  was  born  out  of  my  mother,  generations  guided  me; 
My  embryo  has  never  been  torpid — nothing  could  overlay  it. 

"For  it  the  nebula  cohered  to  an  orb, 
The  long  slow  strata  piled  to  rest  it  on, 
Vast  vegetables  gave  it  sustenance, 

Monstrous  sauroids  transported  it  in  their  mouths  and 
deposited  it  with  care. 

"All  forces  have  been  steadily  employ 'd  to  complete  and 

delight  me; 
Now  on  this  spot  I  stand  with  my  robust  Soul." 

Not  in  vain  have  they  pierced  space  as  well  as  time  and 
found  "a  vast  similitude  interlocking  all." 

"  I  open  my  scuttle  at  night  and  see  the  far-sprinkled  systems, 
And  all  I  see,  multiplied  as  high  as  I  can  cypher,  edge  but 
the  rim  of  the  farther  systems. 

"Wider  and  wider  they  spread,  expanding,  always  expand 
ing, 
Outward,  and  outward,  and  for  ever  outward. 

"My  sun  has  his  sun,  and  round  him  obediently  wheels, 
He  joins  with  his  partners  a  group  of  superior  circuit, 
And  greater  sets  follow,  making  specks  of  the  greatest  inside 
them. 

29 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

"There  is  no  stoppage,  and  never  can  be  stoppage; 
If  I,  you,  and  the  worlds,  and  all  beneath  or  upon  their 

surfaces,  were  this  moment  reduced  back  to  a  pallid  float, 

it  would  not  avail  in  the  long  run; 
We  should  surely  bring  up  again  where  we  now  stand, 
And  as  surely  go  as  much  farther — and  then  farther  and 

farther." 

Not  in  vain  for  him  have  they  penetrated  into  the 
substances  of  things  to  find  that  what  we  thought  poor, 
dead,  inert  matter  is  (in  Clerk  Maxwell's  words)  "a 
very  sanctuary  of  minuteness  and  power  where  mole 
cules  obey  the  laws  of  their  existence,  and  clash  to 
gether  in  fierce  collision,  or  grapple  in  yet  more  fierce 
embrace,  building  up  in  secret  the  forms  of  visible 
things";  each  stock  and  stone  a  busy  group  of  Ariels 
plying  obediently  their  hidden  tasks. 
"Why!  who  makes  much  of  a  miracle? 

As  to  me,  I  know  of  nothing  else  but  miracles, 

"To  me,  every  hour  of  the  light  and  dark  is  a  miracle, 
Every  cubic  inch  of  space  is  a  miracle, 
Every  square  yard  of  the  surface  of  the  earth  is  spread  with 

the  same,     .    .    . 
Every  spear  of  grass — the  frames,  limbs,  organs,  of  men 

and  women,  and  all  that  concerns  them, 
All  these  to  me  are  unspeakably  perfect  miracles." 

The  natural  is  the  supernatural,  says  Carlyle.  It  is 
the  message  that  comes  to  our  time  from  all  quarters 
alike;  from  poetry,  from  science,  from  the  deep  brood 
ing  of  the  student  of  human  history.  Science  material 
istic?  Rather  it  is  the  current  theology  that  is  material- 

30 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

istic  in  comparison.  Science  may  truly  be  said  to 
have  annihilated  our  gross  and  brutish  conceptions  of 
matter,  and  to  have  revealed  it  to  us  as  subtle,  spiritual, 
energetic  beyond  our  powers  of  realization.  It  is  for 
the  Poet  to  increase  these  powers  of  realization.  He  it 
is  who  must  awaken  us  to  the  perception  of  a  new  heaven 
and  a  new  earth  here  where  we  stand  on  this  old  earth. 
He  it  is  who  must,  in  Walt  Whitman's  words,  indicate 
the  path  between  reality  and  the  soul. 

Above  all  is  every  thought  and  feeling  in  these  poems 
touched  by  the  light  of  the  great  revolutionary  truth 
that  man,  unfolded  through  vast  stretches  of  time 
out  of  lowly  antecedents,  is  a  rising,  not  a  fallen  crea 
ture;  emerging  slowly  from  purely  animal  life;  as  slowly 
as  the  strata  are  piled  and  the  ocean  beds  hollowed; 
whole  races  still  barely  emerged,  countless  individuals 
in  the  foremost  races  barely  emerged:  "the  wolf,  the 
snake,  the  hog"  yet  lingering  in  the  best;  but  new 
ideals  achieved,  and  others  come  in  sight,  so  that  what 
once  seemed  fit  is  fit  no  longer,  is  adhered  to  uneasily 
and  with  shame;  the  conflicts  and  antagonisms  be 
tween  what  we  call  good  and  evil,  at  once  the  sign  and 
the  means  of  emergence,  and  needing  to  account  for 
them  no  supposed  primeval  disaster,  no  outside  power 
thwarting  and  marring  the  Divine  handiwork,  the 
perfect  fitness  to  its  time  and  place  of  all  that  has  pro 
ceeded  from  the  Great  Source.  In  a  word  that  Evil  is 
relative;  is  that  which  the  slowly  developing  reason  and 
conscience  bid  us  leave  behind.  The  prowess  of  the 
lion,  the  subtlety  of  the  fox,  are  cruelty  and  duplicity 
in  man. 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

"  Silent  and  amazed ,  when  a  little  boy, 

I  remember  I  heard  the  preacher  every  Sunday  put  God  in 

his  statements, 
As  contending  against  some  being  or  influence. " 

says  the  poet.  And  elsewhere,  "Faith,  very  old  now, 
scared  away  by  science" — by  the  daylight  science  lets 
in  upon  our  miserable,  inadequate,  idolatrous  con 
ceptions  of  God  and  of  His  works,  and  on  the  sophis 
tications,  subterfuges,  moral  impossibilities,  by  which 
we  have  endeavoured  to  reconcile  the  irreconcilable — 
the  coexistence  of  omnipotent  Goodness  and  an  abso 
lute  Power  of  Evil — "Faith  must  be  brought  back  by 
the  same  power  that  caused  her  departure:  restored 
with  new  sway,  deeper,  wider,  higher  than  ever."  And 
what  else,  indeed,  at  bottom,  is  science  so  busy  at?  For 
what  is  Faith?  "Faith,"  to  borrow  venerable  and  un 
surpassed  words,  "is  the  substance  of  things  hoped  for, 
the  evidence  of  things  not  seen."  And  how  obtain 
evidence  of  things  not  seen  but  by  a  knowledge  of 
things  seen?  And  how  know  what  we  may  hope  for, 
but  by  knowing  the  truth  of  what  is,  here  and  now? 
For  seen  and  unseen  are  parts  of  the  Great  Whole: 
all  the  parts  interdependent,  closely  related;  all  alike 
have  proceeded  from  and  are  manifestations  of  the 
Divine  Source.  Nature  is  not  the  barrier  between  us 
and  the  unseen  but  the  link,  the  communication;  she, 
too,  has  something  behind  appearances,  has  an  unseen 
soul;  she,  too,  is  made  of  "innumerable  energies." 
Knowledge  is  not  faith,  but  it  is  faith's  indispensable 
preliminary  and  starting  ground.  Faith  runs  ahead  to 
fetch  glad  tidings  for  us;  but  if  she  start  from  a  basis 

32 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

of  ignorance  and  illusion,  how  can  she  but  run  in  the 
wrong  direction?  "Suppose/'  said  that  impetuous 
lover  and  seeker  of  truth,  Clifford,  "Suppose  all  moving 
things  to  be  suddenly  stopped  at  some  instant,  and 
that  we  could  be  brought  fresh,  without  any  previous 
knowledge,  to  look  at  the  petrified  scene.  The  spec 
tacle  would  be  immensely  absurd.  Crowds  of  people 
would  be  senselessly  standing  on  one  leg  in  the  street 
looking  at  one  another's  backs;  others  would  be  wasting 
their  time  by  sitting  in  a  train  in  a  place  difficult  to 
get  at,  nearly  all  with  their  mouths  open,  and  their 
bodies  in  some  contorted,  unrestful  posture.  Clocks 
would  stand  with  their  pendulums  on  one  side.  Every 
thing  would  be  disorderly,  conflicting,  in  its  wrong 
place.  But  once  remember  that  the  world  is  in  motion, 
is  going  somewhere,  and  everything  will  be  accounted 
for  and  found  just  as  it  should  be.  Just  so  great  a 
change  of  view,  just  so  complete  an  explanation  is 
given  to  us  when  we  recognize  that  the  nature  of 
man  and  beast  and  of  all  the  world  is  going  somewhere. 
The  maladaptions  in  organic  nature  are  seen  to  be 
steps  toward  the  improvement  or  discarding  of  im 
perfect  organs.  The  baneful  strife  which  lurketh  inborn 
in  us,  and  goeth  on  the  way  with  us  to  hurt  us,  is  found  to 
be  the  relic  of  a  time  of  savage  or  even  lower  condition." 
"Going  somewhere!"  That  is  the  meaning  then  of 
all  our  perplexities!  That  changes  a  mystery  which 
stultified  and  contradicted  the  best  we  knew  into  a 
mystery  which  teaches,  allures,  elevates;  which  har 
monizes  what  we  know  with  what  we  hope.  By  it  we 
begin  to 

33 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

".     .     .    see  by  the  glad  light, 

And  breathe  the  sweet  air  of  futurity." 

The  scornful  laughter  of  Carlyle  as  he  points  with  one 
hand  to  the  baseness,  ignorance,  folly,  cruelty  around 
us,  and  with  the  other  to  the  still  unsurpassed  poets, 
sages,  heroes,  saints  of  antiquity,  whilst  he  utters  the 
words  "progress  of  the  species!"  touches  us  no  longer 
when  we  have  begun  to  realize  "the  amplitude  of 
time";  when  we  know  something  of  the  scale  by  which 
Nature  measures  out  the  years  to  accomplish  her  small 
est  essential  modification  or  development ;  know  that  to 
call  a  few  thousands  or  tens  of  thousands  of  years  anti 
quity,  is  to  speak  as  a  child,  and  that  in  her  chronology 
the  great  days  of  Egypt  and  Syria,  of  Greece  and 
Rome  are  affairs  of  yesterday. 

"  Each  of  us  inevitable; 
Each  of  us  limitless — each  of  us  with  his  or  her  right  upon 

the  earth; 

Each  of  us  allow'd  the  eternal  purports  of  the  earth; 
Each  of  us  here  as  divinely  as  any  are  here. 

"You  Hottentot  with  clicking  palate!    You  woolly  hair'd 

hordes ! 

You  own'd  persons,  dropping  sweat-drops  or  blood-drops! 
You  human  forms  with  the  fathomless  ever-impressive 

countenances  of  brutes ! 
I  dare  not  refuse  you — the  scope  of  the  world,  and  of  time 

and  space  are  upon  me. 

"  I  do  not  prefer  others  so  very  much  before  you  either; 
I  do  not  say  one  word  against  you,  away  back  there, 
where  you  stand; 

34 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

(You  will  come  forward  in  due  time  to  my  side.) 

My   spirit  has  pass'd   in   compassion  and  determination 

around  the  whole  earth; 
I  have  look'd  for  equals  and  lovers,  and  found  them  ready 

for  me  in  all  lands; 
I  think  some  divine  rapport  has  equalized  me  with  them. 

"O  vapours!     I  think  I  have  risen  with  you,  and  moved  away 
to  distant  continents  and  fallen  down  there,  for  reasons; 
I  think  I  have  blown  with  you,  O  winds; 

0  waters,  I  have  finger'd  every  shore  with  you. 

"I  have  run  through  what  any  river  or  strait  of  the  globe 
has  run  through; 

1  have  taken  my  stand  on  the  bases  of  peninsulas,  and  on 
the  high  embedded  rocks,  to  cry  thence. 

"Salut  au  monde! 
What  cities  the  light  or  warmth  penetrates,  I  penetrate 

those  cities  myself; 
All  islands  to  which  birds  wing  their  way  I  wing  my  way 

myself. 

"Toward  all, 

I  raise  high  the  perpendicular  hand — 1  make  the  signal, 
To  remain  after  me  in  sight  forever, 
For  all  the  haunts  and  homes  of  men/' 

But  "Hold!"  says  the  reader,  especially  if  he  be  one 
who  loves  science,  who  loves  to  feel  the  firm  ground 
under  his  feet,  "That  the  species  has  a  great  future 
before  it  we  may  well  believe;  already  we  see  the  indi 
cations.  But  that  the  individual  has  is  quite  another 
matter.  We  can  but  balance  probabilities  here,  and 
the  probabilities  are  very  heavy  on  the  wrong  side;  the 

35 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

poets  must  throw  in  weighty  matter  indeed  to  turn  the 
scale  the  other  way!"  Be  it  so:  but  ponder  a  m  >ment 
what  science  herself  has  to  say  bearing  on  this  theme; 
what  are  the  widest,  deepest  facts  she  has  reached  down 
to.  INDESTRUCTIBILITY:  Amidst  ceaseless  change  and 
seeming  decay  all  the  elements,  all  the  forces  (if  indeed 
they  be  not  one  and  the  same)  which  operate  and  sub 
stantiate  those  changes,  imperishable;  neither  matter 
nor  force  capable  of  annihilation.  Endless  transforma 
tions,  disappearances,  new  combinations,  but  diminu 
tion  of  the  total  amount  never;  missing  in  one  place  or 
shape  to  be  found  in  another,  disguised  ever  so  long, 
ready  always  to  re-emerge.  "A  particle  of  oxygen," 
wrote  Faraday,  "is  ever  a  particle  of  oxygen;  nothing 
can  in  the  least  wear  it.  If  it  enters  into  combination 
and  disappears  as  oxygen,  if  it  pass  through  a  thousand 
combinations,  animal,  vegetable,  mineral — if  it  lie  hid 
for  a  thousand  years  and  then  be  evolved,  it  is  oxygen 
with  its  first  qualities  neither  more  nor  less."  So  then 
out  of  the  universe  is  no  door.  CONTINUITY  again  is 
one  of  Nature's  irrevocable^words  ^everything  the  result 
and  outcome  of  what  went  before;  no  gaps,  no  jumps; 
always  a  connecting  principle  which  carries  forward  the 
great  scheme  of  things  as  a  related  whole,  which  subtly 
links  past  and  present,  like  and  unlike.  Nothing  breaks 
with  its  past.  "It  is  not,"  says  Helmholtz,  "the 
definite  mass  of  substance  which  now  constitutes  the 
body  to  which  the  continuance  of  the  individual  is 
attached.  Just  as  the  flame  remains  the  same  in 
appearance  and  continues  to  exist  with  the  same  form 
and  structure  although  it  draws  every  moment  fresh 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

combustible  vapour  and  fresh  oxygen  from  the  air 
into  the  vortex  of  its  ascending  current;  and  just  as  the 
wave  goes  on  in  unaltered  form  and  is  yet  being  recon 
structed  every  moment  from  fresh  particles  of  water,  so 
is  it  also  in  the  living  being.  For  the  material  of  the 
body  like  that  of  flame  is  subject  to  continuous  and 
comparatively  rapid  change — a  change  the  more  rapid 
the  livelier  the  activity  of  the  organs  in  question. 
Some  constituents  are  renewed  from  day  to  day,  some 
from  month  to  month,  and  others  only  after  years. 
That  which  continues  to  exist  as  a  particular  individual 
is,  like  the  wave  and  the  flame,  only  the  form  of  motion 
which  continually  attracts  fresh  matter  into  its  vortex 
and  expels  the  old.  The  observer  with  a  deaf  ear  recog 
nizes  the  vibration  of  sound  as  long  as  it  is  visible  and 
can  be  felt,  bound  up  with  other  heavy  matter.  Are 
our  senses  in  reference  to  life  like  the  deaf  ear  in  this 
respect?" 

"You  are  not  thrown  to  the  winds — you  gather  certainly 
and  safely  around  yourself; 

It  is  not  to  diffuse  you  that  you  were  born  of  your  mother 

and  father — it  is  to  identify  you; 
It  is  not  that  you  should  be  undecided,  but  that  you  should 

be  decided ; 
'  Something  long  preparing  and  formless  is  arrived  and  form'd 

in  you, 
You  are  henceforth  secure,  whatever  comes  or  goes. 

"O  Death!  the  voyage  of  Death! 

The  beautiful  touch  of  Death,  soothing  and  benumbing 
a  few  moments  for  reasons; 

37 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

Myself  discharging  my  excrementitious  body  to  be  burn'd 

or  reduced  to  powder  or  buried. 
My  real  body  doubtless  left  me  for  other  spheres, 
My  voided  body,  nothing  more  to  me,  returning  to  the 

purifications,  farther  offices,  eternal  uses  of  the  earth." 

Yes,  they  go  their  way,  those  dismissed  atoms  with 
all  their  energies  and  affinities  unimpaired.  But  they 
are  not  all;  the  will,  the  affections,  the  intellect  are  just 
as  real  as  those  affinities  and  energies,  and  there  is 
strict  account  of  all;  nothing  slips  through;  there  is  no 
door  out  of  the  universe.  But  they  are  qualities  of  a 
personality,  of  a  self,  not  of  an  atom  but  of  what  uses 
and  dismisses  those  atoms.  If  the  qualities  are  inde 
structible  so  must  the  self  be.  The  little  heap  of  ashes, 
the  puff  of  gas,  do  you  pretend  that  is  all  that  was 
Shakespeare?  The  rest  of  him  lives  in  his  works,  you 
say?  But  he  lived  and  was  just  the  same  man  after 
those  works  were  produced.  The  world  gained,  but 
he  lost  nothing  of  himself,  rather  grew  and  strengthened 
in  the  production  of  them. 

Still  farther,  those  faculties  with  which  we  seek  for 
knowledge  are  only  a  part  of  us,  there  is  something  be 
hind  which  wields  them,  something  that  those  faculties 
cannot  turn  themselves  in  upon  and  comprehend;  for 
the  part  cannot  compass  the  whole.  Yet  there  it  is 
with  the  irrefragable  proof  of  consciousness.  Who 
should  be  the  mouthpiece  of  this  whole?  Who  but  the 
poet,  the  man  most  fully  "possessed  of  his  own  soul/' 
the  man  of  the  largest  consciousness;  fullest  of  love  and 
sympathy  which  gather  into  his  own  life  the  experiences 

38 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

of  others,  fullest  of  imagination;  that  quality  whereof 
Wordsworth  says  that  it 

"...    in  truth 

Is  but  another  name  for  absolute  power, 
And  clearest  insight,  amplitude  of  mind 
And  reason  in  her  most  exalted  mood." 

Let  Walt  Whitman  speak  for  us: 

"  And  I  know  I  am  solid  and  sound ; 
To  me  the  converging  objects  of  the  universe  perpetually 

flow: 
All  are  written  to  me,  and  I  must  get  what  the  writing  means. 

"I  know  I  am  deathless; 

I  know  this  orbit  of  mine  cannot  be  swept  by  the  car 
penter's  compass; 

I  know  I  shall  not  pass  like  a  child's  carlacue  cut  with  a 
burnt  stick  at  night. 

"I  know  I  am  august; 

I  do  not  trouble  my  spirit  to  vindicate  itself  or  be  understood ; 
I  see  that  the  elementary  laws  never  apologize; 
(I  reckon  I  behave  no  prouder  than  the  level  I  plant  my 
house  by,  after  all.) 

"I  exist  as  I  am — that  is  enough; 
If  no  other  in  the  world  be  aware  I  sit  content; 
And  if  each  one  and  all  be  aware,  I  sit  content. 

"One  world  is  aware,  and  by  far  the  largest  to  me,  and  that  is 

myself; 
And  whether  I  come  to  my  own  to-day,  or  in  ten  thousand 

or  ten  million  years, 

I  can  cheerfully  take  it  now,  or  with  equal  cheerfulness  I 
can  wait. 

39 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

"My  foothold  is  tenon'd  and  mortis'd  in  granite; 
I  laugh  at  what  you  call  dissolution; 
And  I  know  the  amplitude  of  time." 

What  lies  through  the  portal  of  death  is  hidden  from 
us;  but  the  laws  that  govern  that  unknown  land  are  not 
all  hidden  from  us,  for  they  govern  here  and  now;  they 
are  immutable,  eternal. 

"Of  and  in  all  these  things 
I  have  dream'd  that  we  are  not  to  be  changed  so  much,  nor 

the  law  of  us  changed, 
I  have  dream'd  that  heroes  and  good  doers  shall  be  under 

the  present  and  past  law, 
And  that  murderers,  drunkards,  liars,  shall  be  under  the 

present  and  past  law, 
For  I  have  dream'd  that  the  law  they  are  under  now  is 

enough." 

And  the  law  not  to  be  eluded  is  the  law  of  consequences, 
the  law  of  silent  teaching.  That  is  the  meaning  of 
disease,  pain,  remorse.  Slow  to  learn  are  we;  but 
success  is  assured  with  limitless  Beneficence  as  our 
teacher,  with  limitless  time  as  our  opportunity.  Al 
ready  we  begin — 

"To  know  the  Universe  itself  as  a  road — as  many  roads 
As  roads  for  travelling  souls. 
For  ever  alive;  for  ever  forward. 
Stately,  solemn,  sad,  withdrawn,  baffled,  mad,  turbulent, 

feeble,  dissatisfied; 
Desperate,  proud,  fond,  sick; 
Accepted  by  men,  rejected  by  men. 

40 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

They  go!  they  go!     I  know  that  they  go,  but  I  know  not 

where  they  go. 
But  I  know  they  go  toward  the  best,  toward  something 

great ; 
The  whole  Universe  indicates  that  it  is  good." 

Going  somewhere!  And  if  it  is  impossible  for  us  to 
see  whither,  as  in  the  nature  of  things  it  must  be,  how 
can  we  be  adequate  judges  of  the  way?  how  can  we  but 
often  grope  and  be  full  of  perplexity?  But  we  know 
that  a  smooth  path,  a  paradise  of  a  world,  could  only 
nurture  fools,  cowards,  sluggards.  "Joy  is  the  great 
unfolder,"  but  pain  is  the  great  enlightener,  the  great 
stimulus  in  certain  directions,  alike  of  man  and  beast. 
How  else  could  the  self-preserving  instincts,  and  all 
that  grows  out  of  them,  have  been  evoked?  How  else 
those  wonders  of  the  moral  world,  fortitude,  patience, 
sympathy?  And  if  the  lesson  be  too  hard  comes  Death, 
come  "the  sure-enwinding  arms  of  Death"  to  end  it, 
and  speed  us  to  the  unknown  land. 

" .     .     .     .     Man  is  only  weak 
Through  his  mistrust  and  want  of  hope," 

wrote  Wordsworth.  But  man's  mistrust  of  himself  is, 
at  bottom,  mistrust  of  the  central  Fount  of  power  and 
goodness  whence  he  has  issued.  Here  comes  one  who 
plucks  out  of  religion  its  heart  of  fear,  and  puts  into  it 
a  heart  of  boundless  faith  and  joy;  a  faith  that  beggars 
previous  faiths  because  it  sees  that  All  is  good,  not  part 
bad  and  part  good;  that  there  is  no  flaw  in  the  scheme 
of  things,  no  primeval  disaster,  no  counteracting  power; 
but  orderly  and  sure  growth  and  development,  and  that 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

infinite  Goodness  and  Wisdom  embrace  and  ever  lead 
forward  all  that  exists.  Are  you  troubled  that  He  is 
an  unknown  God;  that  we  cannot  by  searching  find  Him 
out?  Why,  it  would  be  a  poor  prospect  for  the  Uni 
verse  if  otherwise;  if,  embryos  that  we  are,  we  could 
compass  Him  in  our  thoughts: 

"I  hear  and  behold  God  in  every  object,  yet  understand 
God  not  in  the  least/' 

It  is  the  double  misfortune  of  the  churches  that  they 
do  not  study  God  in  His  works — man  and  Nature  and 
their  relations  to  each  other;  and  that  they  do  profess 
to  set  Him  forth;  that  they  worship  therefore  a  God  of 
man's  devising,  an  idol  made  by  men's  minds  it  is  true, 
not  by  their  hands,  but  none  the  less  an  idol.  "Leaves 
are  not  more  shed  out  of  trees  than  Bibles  are  shed  out 
of  you/'  says  the  poet.  They  were  the  best  of  their 
time,  but  not  of  all  time;  they  need  renewing  as  surely 
as  there  is  such  a  thing  as  growth,  as  surely  as  knowl 
edge  nourishes  and  sustains  to  further  development; 
as  surely  as  time  unrolls  new  pages  of  the  mighty  scheme 
of  existence.  Nobly  has  George  Sand,  too,  written: 
"Everything  is  divine,  even  matter;  everything  is 
superhuman,  even  man.  God  is  everywhere.  He  is 
in  me  in  a  measure  proportioned  to  the  little  that  I  am. 
My  present  life  separates  me  from  Him  just  in  the 
degree  determined  by  the  actual  state  of  childhood  of 
our  race.  Let  me  content  myself  in  all  my  seeking  to 
feel  after  Him,  and  to  possess  of  Him  as  much  as  this 
imperfect  soul  can  take  in  with  the  intellectual  sense 
I  have.  The  day  will  come  when  we  shall  no  longer 

42 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

talk  about  God  idly;  nay,  when  we  shall  talk  about 
Him  as  little  as  possible.  We  shall  cease  to  set  Him 
forth  dogmatically,  to  dispute  about  His  nature.  We 
shall  put  compulsion  on  no  one  to  pray  to  Him,  we 
shall  leave  the  whole  business  of  worship  within  the 
sanctuary  of  each  man's  conscience.  And  this  will 
happen  when  we  are  really  religious." 

In  what  sense  may  Walt  Whitman  be  called  the  Poet 
of  Democracy?  It  is  as  giving  utterance  to  this  pro 
foundly  religious  faith  in  man.  He  is  rather  the 
prophet  of  what  is  to  be  than  the  celebrator  of  what  is. 
"Democracy,"  he  writes,  ''is  a  word  the  real  gist  of 
which  still  sleeps  quite  unawakened,  notwithstanding 
the  resonance  and  the  many  angry  tempests  out  of 
which  its  syllables  have  come  from  pen  or  tongue. 
It  is  a  great  word,  whose  history,  I  suppose,  remains 
unwritten  because  that  history  has  yet  to  be  enacted. 
It  is  in  some  sort  younger  brother  of  another  great  and 
often  used  word,  Nature,  whose  history  also  waits 
unwritten."  Political  democracy,  now  taking  shape, 
is  the  house  to  live  in,  and  whilst  what  we  demand  of 
it  is  room  for  all,  fair  chances  for  all,  none  disregarded 
or  left  out  as  of  no  account,  the  main  question,  the 
kind  of  life  that  is  to  be  led  in  that  house  is  altogether 
beyond  the  ken  of  the  statesmen  as  such,  and  is  involved 
in  those  deepest  facts  of  the  nature  and  destiny  of  man 
which  are  the  themes  of  Walt  Whitman's  writings.  The 
practical  outcome  of  that  exalted  and  all-accepting 
faith  in  the  scheme  of  things,  and  in  man,  toward  whom 
all  has  led  up  and  in  whom  all  concentrates  as  the  mani 
festation,  the  revelation  of  Divine  Power  is  a  changed 

43 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

estimate  of  himself;  a  higher  reverence  for,  a  loftier 
belief  in  the  heritage  of  himself;  a  perception  that  pride, 
not  humility,  is  the  true  homage  to  his  Maker;  that 
"noblesse  oblige"  is  for  the  Race,  not  for  a  handful; 
that  it  is  mankind  and  womankind  and  their  high 
destiny  which  constrain  to  greatness,  which  can  no 
longer  stoop  to  meanness  and  lies  and  base  aims,  but 
must  needs  clothe  themselves  in  "the  majesty  of 
honest  dealing"  (majestic  because  demanding  courage 
as  good  as  the  soldier's,  self-denial  as  good  as  the  saint's 
for  every-day  affairs),  and  walk  erect  and  fearless,  a 
law  to  themselves,  sternest  of  all  lawgivers.  Looking 
back  to  the  palmy  days  of  feudalism,  especially  as 
immortalized  in  Shakespeare's  plays,  what  is  it  we 
find  most  admirable?  what  is  it  that  fascinates?  It 
is  the  noble  pride,  the  lofty  self-respect;  the  dignity,  the 
courage  and  audacity  of  its  great  personages.  But  this 
pride,  this  dignity  rested  half  upon  a  true,  half  upon  a 
hollow  foundation;  half  upon  intrinsic  qualities,  half 
upon  the  ignorance  and  brutishness  of  the  great  masses 
of  the  people,  whose  helpless  submission  and  easily 
dazzled  imaginations  made  stepping-stones  to  the  eleva 
tion  of  the  few,  and  "hedged  round  kings,"  with  a 
specious  kind  of  "divinity."  But  we  have  our  faces 
turned  toward  a  new  day,  and  toward  heights  on  which 
there  is  room  for  all. 

"  By  God,  I  will  accept  nothing  which  all  cannot  have  their 
counterpart  of  on  the  same  terms" 

is  the  motto  of  the  great  personages,  the  great  souls  of 
to-day.  On  the  same  terms,  for  that  is  Nature's  law 

44 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

and  cannot  be  abrogated,  the  reaping  as  you  sow.  But 
all  shall  have  the  chance  to  sow  well.  This  is  pride 
indeed!  Not  a  pride  that  isolates,  but  that  can  take 
no  rest  till  our  common  humanity  is  lifted  out  of  the 
mire  everywhere,  "a  pride  that  cannot  stretch  too  far 
because  sympathy  stretches  with  it " : 

"  Whoever  you  are !  claim  your  own  at  any  hazard ! 
These  shows  of  the  east  and  west  are  tame,  compared  to 

you; 

These  immense  meadows — these  interminable  rivers — 
You  are  immense  and  interminable  as  they; 
These  furies,  elements,  storms,  motions  of  Nature,  throes  of 

apparent  dissolution — you  are  he  or  she  who  is  master 

or  mistress  over  them, 
Master  or  mistress  in  your  own  right  over  Nature,  elements, 

pain,  passion,  dissolution. 

"The  hopples  fall  from  your  ankles — you  find  an  unfailing 

sufficiency; 
Old  or  young,  male  or  female,  rude,  low,  rejected  by  the 

rest,  whatever  you  are  promulges  itself; 
Through  birth,  life,  death,  burial,  the  means  are  provided, 

nothing  is  scanted; 

Through  angers,  losses,  ambition,  ignorance  and  ennui, 
what  you  are  picks  its  way." 

This  is  indeed  a  pride  that  is  "calming  and  excellent  to 
the  soul";  that  "dissolves  poverty  from  its  need  and 
riches  from  its  conceit." 

And  humility?  Is  there,  then,  no  place  for  that 
virtue  so  much  praised  by  the  haughty?  Humility  is 
the  sweet  spontaneous  grace  of  an  aspiring,  finely 

45 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

developed  nature  which  sees  always  heights  ahead  still 
unclimbed,  which  outstrips  itself  in  eager  longing  for 
excellence  still  unattained.  Genuine  humility  takes 
good  care  of  itself  as  men  rise  in  the  scale  of  being;  for 
every  height  climbed  discloses  still  new  heights  beyond. 
Or  it  is  a  wise  caution  in  fortune's  favourites  lest  they 
themselves  should  mistake,  as  the  unthinking  crowd 
around  do,  the  glitter  reflected  back  upon  them  by 
their  surroundings  for  some  superiority  inherent  in 
themselves.  It  befits  them  well  if  there  be  also  due 
pride,  pride  of  humanity  behind.  But  to  say  to  a 
man /Be  humble'  is  like  saying  to  one  who  has  a  battle 
to  fight,  a  race  to  run,  'You  are  a  poor,  feeble  creature; 
you  are  not  likely  to  win  and  you  do  not  deserve  to/ 
Say  rather  to  him,  'Hold  up  your  head !  You  were  not 
made  for  failure,  you  were  made  for  victory :  go  forward 
with  a  joyful  confidence  in  that  result  sooner  or  later, 
and  the  sooner  or  the  later  depends  mainly  on  your 
self/ 

"What  Christ  appeared  for  in  the  moral-spiritual 
field  for  humankind,  namely,  that  in  respect  to  the  abso 
lute  soul  there  is  in  the  possession  of  such  by  each 
single  individual  something  so  transcendent,  so  in 
capable  of  gradations  (like  life)  that  to  that  extent  it 
places  all  being  on  a  common  level,  utterly  regardless 
of  the  distinctions  of  intellect,  virtue,  station,  or  any 
height  or  lowliness  whatever"  is  the  secret  source  of 
that  deathless  sentiment  of  Equality  which  how  many 
able  heads  imagine  themselves  to  have  slain  with  ridi 
cule  and  contempt  as  Johnson,  kicking  a  stone,  imagined 
he  had  demolished  Idealism  when  he  had  simply  attrib- 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

uted  to  the  word  an  impossible  meaning.  True, 
/^equality  is  one  of  Nature's  words:  she  moves  forward 
always  by  means  of  the  exceptional.  But  the  moment 
the  move  is  accomplished,  then  all  her  efforts  are  to 
ward  equality,  toward  bringing  up  the  rear  to  that 
standpoint.  But  social  inequalities,  class  distinctions, 
do  not  stand  for  or  represent  Nature's  inequalities. 
Precisely  the  contrary  in  the  long  run.  They  are 
devices  for  holding  up  many  that  would  else  gravitate 
down  and  keeping  down  many  who  would  else  rise  up; 
for  providing  that  some  should  reap  who  have  not  sown, 
and  many  sow  without  reaping.  But  literature  tallies 
the  ways  of  Nature;  for  though  itself  the  product  of 
the  exceptional,  its  aim  is  to  draw  all  men  up  to  its 
own  level.  The  great  writer  is  "hungry  for  equals  day 
and  night/'  for  so  only  can  he  be  fully  understood. 
"The  meal  is  equally  set";  all  are  invited.  Therefore 
is  literature,  whether  consciously  or  not,  the  greatest  of 
all  forces  on  the  side  of  Democracy. 

Carlyle  has  said  there  is  no  grand  poem  in  the  world 
but  is  at  bottom  a  biography — the  life  of  a  man. 
Walt  Whitman's  poems  are  not  the  biography  of  a  man, 
but  they  are  his  actual  presence.  It  is  no  vain  boast 
when  he  exclaims, 

"Camerado!  this  is  no  book; 
Who  touches  this  touches  a  man." 

He  has  infused  himself  into  words  in  a  way  that  had  not 
before  seemed  possible;  and  he  causes  each  reader  to 
feel  that  he  himself  or  herself  has  an  actual  relationship 
to  him,  is  a  reality  full  of  inexhaustible  significance  and 

47 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

interest  to  the  poet.  The  power  of  his  book,  beyond 
even  its  great  intellectual  force,  is  the  power  with  which 
he  makes  this  felt;  his  words  lay  more  hold  than  the 
grasp  of  a  hand,  strike  deeper  than  the  gaze  or  the 
flash  of  an  eye;  to  those  who  comprehend  him  he  stands 
"nigher  than  the  nighest." 

America  has  had  the  shaping  of  Walt  Whitman,  and 
he  repays  the  filial  debt  with  a  love  that  knows  no  stint. 
Her  vast  lands  with  their  varied,  brilliant  climes  and 
rich  products,  her  political  scheme,  her  achievements 
and  her  failures,  all  have  contributed  to  make  these 
poems  what  they  are  both  directly  and  indirectly. 
Above  all  has  that  great  conflict,  the  Secession  War, 
found  voice  in  him.  And  if  the  reader  would  under 
stand  the  true  causes  and  nature  of  that  war,  ostensibly 
waged  between  North  and  South,  but  underneath  a 
tussle  for  supremacy  between  the  good  and  the  evil 
genius  of  America  (for  there  were  just  as  many  secret 
sympathizers  with  the  secession-slave-power  in  the 
North  as  in  the  South)  he  will  find  the  clue  in  the  pages 
of  Walt  Whitman.  Rarely  has  he  risen  to  a  loftier 
height  than  in  the  poem  which  heralds  that  volcanic 
upheaval  :— 

"Rise,  O  days,  from  your  fathomless  deeps,  till  you  loftier 

and  fiercer  sweep ! 
Long  for  my  soul,  hungering  gymnastic,  I  devoured  what  the 

earth  gave  me; 
Long  I   roam'd  the  woods  of  the  north — long  I  watch'd 

Niagara  pouring; 

I   travel'd  the  prairies  over,  and  slept  on  their  breast — 
I  cross'd  the  Nevadas,  I  cross'd  the  plateaus; 

48 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

I  ascended  the  towering  rocks  along  the  Pacific,  I  sail'd  out 

to  sea; 

I  sail'd  through  the  storm,  I  was  refresh'd  by  the  storm; 
I  watch 'd  with  joy  the  threatening  maws  of  the  waves; 
I   mark'd  the  white  combs  where  they  career'd  so  high^ 

curling  over; 

I  heard  the  wind  piping,  I  saw  the  black  clouds; 
Saw  from  below  what  arose  and  mounted  (O  superb!    O 

wild  as  my  heart,  and  powerful !) 

Heard  the  continuous  thunder,  as  it  bellow'd  after  the  light 
ning; 
Noted  the  slender  and  jagged  threads  of  lightning,  as  sudden 

and  fast  amid  the  din  they  chased  each  other  across  the 

sky; 
—These,  and  such  as  these,  I ,  elate,  saw — saw  with  wonder, 

yet  pensive  and  masterful; 

All  the  menacing  might  of  the  globe  uprisen  around  me; 
Yet  there  with  my  soul  I  fed — I  fed  content,  supercilious. 

"Twas  well,  O  soul!  'twas  a  good  preparation  you  gave  me! 
Now  we  advance  our  latent  and  ampler  hunger  to  fill ; 
Now  we  go  forth  to  receive  what  the  earth  and  the  sea 

never  gave  us; 
Not  through  the  mighty  woods  we  go,  but  through  the 

mightier  cities; 

Something  for  us  is  pouring  now,  more  than  Niagara  pouring; 
Torrents  of  men  (sources  and  rills  of  the  Northwest,  are 

you  indeed  inexhaustible?) 
What,   to    pavements   and    homesteads  here — what  were 

those  storms  of  the  mountains  and  sea? 
What,   to   passions   I  witness  around  me  to-day?     Was 

the  sea  risen? 
Was  the  wind  piping  the  pipe  of  death  under  the  black 

clouds? 

49 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT   WHITMAN 

Lo !  from  deeps  more  unfathomable,  something  more  deadly 
and  savage; 

Manhattan,  rising,  advancing  with  menacing  front — Cin 
cinnati,  Chicago,  unchain'd; 

— What  was  that  swell  I  saw  on  the  ocean?  behold  what 
comes  here! 

How  it  climbs  with  daring  feet  and  hands!  how  it  dashes! 

How  the  true  thunder  bellows  after  the  lightning!  how  bright 
the  flashes  of  lightning! 

How  DEMOCRACY,  with  desperate,  vengeful  port  strides 
on,  shown  through  the  dark  by  those  flashes  of  lightning! 

(Yet  a  mournful  wail  and  low  sob  I  fancied  I  heard  through 
the  dark, 

In  a  lull  of  the  deafening  confusion.) 

"Thunder  on!  stride  on,  Democracy!  stride  with  vengeful 

stroke! 

And  do  you  rise  higher  than  ever  yet,  O  days,  O  cities ! 
Crash  heavier, heavier  yet, O  storms!  you  have  done  me  good; 
My  soul,  prepared  in  the  mountains,  absorbs  your  immortal 

strong  nutriment, 
— Long  had  I  walk'd  my  cities,  my  country  roads,  through 

farms,  only  half  satisfied; 
One  doubt,  nauseous,  undulating  like  as  nake,  crawl'd  on  the 

ground  before  me, 

Continually  preceding  my  steps,  turning  upon  me  oft,  ironi 
cally  hissing  low; 
— The  cities  I  loved  so  well,  I  abandon'd  and  left — I  sped  to 

the  certainties  suitable  to  me; 
Hungering,  hungering,  hungering  for  primal  energies,  and 

nature's  dauntlessness; 

I  refresh'd  myself  with  it  only,  I  could  relish  it  only; 
I  waited  the  bursting  forth  of  the  pent  fire — on  the  water  and 

air  I  waited  long; 

50 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

— But  now  I  no  longer  wait — I  am  fully  satisfied — I  am 

glutted; 
I  have  witness'd  the  true  lightning — I  have  witnessed  my 

cities  electric; 
I  have  lived  to  be  hold  man  burst  forth,  and  warlike  America 

rise; 
Hence   I   will  seek  no  more  the  food  of  the  northern 

solitary  wilds, 
No  more  on  the  mountain  roam,  or  sail  the  stormy  sea." 

But  not  for  the  poet  a  soldier's  career.  "To  sit  by 
the  wounded  and  soothe  them,  or  silently  watch  the 
dead"  was  the  part  he  chose.  During  the  whole  war  he 
remained  with  the  army,  but  only  to  spend  the  days 
and  nights,  saddest,  happiest  of  his  life,  in  the  hospital 
tents.  It  was  a  beautiful  destiny  for  this  lover  of  men, 
and  a  proud  triumph  for  this  believer  in  the  People;  for 
it  was  the  People  that  he  beheld,  tried  by  severest  tests. 
He  saw  them  "of  their  own  choice,  fighting,  dying  for 
their  own  idea,  insolently  attacked  by  the  secession- 
slave-power."  From  the  workshop,  the  farm,  the  store, 
the  desk,  they  poured  forth,  officered  by  men  who  had  to 
blunder  into  knowledge  at  the  cost  of  the  wholesale 
slaughter  of  their  troops.  He  saw  them  "tried  long 
and  long  by  hopelessness,  mismanagement,  defeat; 
advancing  unhesitatingly  through  incredible  slaughter; 
sinewy  with  unconquerable  resolution.  He  saw  them 
by  tens  of  thousands  in  the  hospitals  tried  by  yet 
drearier,  more  fearful  tests — the  wound,  the  amputation, 
the  shattered  face,  the  slow  hot  fever,  the  long  impa 
tient  anchorage  in  bed;  he  marked  their  fortitude, 
decorum,  their  religious  nature  and  sweet  affection." 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT   WHITMAN 

Lo!  from  deeps  more  unfathomable,  something  more  deadly 
and  savage; 

Manhattan,  rising,  advancing  with  menacing  front — Cin 
cinnati,  Chicago,  unchain'd; 

— What  was  that  swell  I  saw  on  the  ocean?  behold  what 
comes  here! 

How  it  climbs  with  daring  feet  and  hands!  how  it  dashes! 

How  the  true  thunder  bellows  after  the  lightning!  how  bright 
the  flashes  of  lightning! 

How  DEMOCRACY,  with  desperate,  vengeful  port  strides 
on,  shown  through  the  dark  by  those  flashes  of  lightning! 

(Yet  a  mournful  wail  and  low  sob  I  fancied  I  heard  through 
the  dark, 

In  a  lull  of  the  deafening  confusion.) 

"Thunder  on!  stride  on,  Democracy!  stride  with  vengeful 

stroke! 

And  do  you  rise  higher  than  ever  yet,  O  days,  O  cities ! 
Crash  heavier, heavier  yet, O  storms!  you  have  done  me  good; 
My  soul,  prepared  in  the  mountains,  absorbs  your  immortal 

strong  nutriment, 
— Long  had  I  walk'd  my  cities,  my  country  roads,  through 

farms,  only  half  satisfied; 
One  doubt,  nauseous,  undulating  like  as  nake,  crawFd  on  the 

ground  before  me, 

Continually  preceding  my  steps,  turning  upon  me  oft,  ironi 
cally  hissing  low; 
— The  cities  I  loved  so  well,  I  abandon'd  and  left — I  sped  to 

the  certainties  suitable  to  me; 
Hungering,  hungering,  hungering  for  primal  energies,  and 

nature's  dauntlessness; 

I  refresh'd  myself  with  it  only,  I  could  relish  it  only; 
I  waited  the  bursting  forth  of  the  pent  fire — on  the  water  and 

air  I  waited  long; 

50 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

— But  now  I  no  longer  wait — I  am  fully  satisfied — I  am 

glutted; 
I  have  witness'd  the  true  lightning — I  have  witnessed  my 

cities  electric; 
I  have  lived  to  be  hold  man  burst  forth,  and  warlike  America 

rise; 
Hence   I   will  seek  no  more  the  food  of  the  northern 

solitary  wilds, 
No  more  on  the  mountain  roam,  or  sail  the  stormy  sea." 

But  not  for  the  poet  a  soldier's  career.  "To  sit  by 
the  wounded  and  soothe  them,  or  silently  watch  the 
dead"  was  the  part  he  chose.  During  the  whole  war  he 
remained  with  the  army,  but  only  to  spend  the  days 
and  nights,  saddest,  happiest  of  his  life,  in  the  hospital 
tents.  It  was  a  beautiful  destiny  for  this  lover  of  men, 
and  a  proud  triumph  for  this  believer  in  the  People;  for 
it  was  the  People  that  he  beheld,  tried  by  severest  tests. 
He  saw  them  "of  their  own  choice,  fighting,  dying  for 
their  own  idea,  insolently  attacked  by  the  secession- 
slave-power."  From  the  workshop,  the  farm,  the  store, 
the  desk,  they  poured  forth,  officered  by  men  who  had  to 
blunder  into  knowledge  at  the  cost  of  the  wholesale 
slaughter  of  their  troops.  He  saw  them  "tried  long 
and  long  by  hopelessness,  mismanagement,  defeat; 
advancing  unhesitatingly  through  incredible  slaughter; 
sinewy  with  unconquerable  resolution.  He  saw  them 
by  tens  of  thousands  in  the  hospitals  tried  by  yet 
drearier,  more  fearful  tests — the  wound,  the  amputation, 
the  shattered  face,  the  slow  hot  fever,  the  long  impa 
tient  anchorage  in  bed;  he  marked  their  fortitude, 
decorum,  their  religious  nature  and  sweet  affection." 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

Finally,  newest,  most  significant  sight  of  all,  victory 
achieved,  the  cause,  the  Union  safe,  he  saw  them 
return  back  to  the  workshop,  the  farm,  the  desk,  the 
store,  instantly  reabsorbed  into  the  peaceful  indus 
tries  of  the  land: — 

"A  pause — the  armies  wait. 
A  million  flush'd  embattled  conquerors  wait. 
The  world,  too,  waits,  then  soft  as  breaking  night  and  sure 

as  dawn 
They  melt,  they  disappear/' 

"Plentifully  supplied,  last-needed  proof  of  Democracy 
in  its  personalities!"  ratifying  on  the  broadest 
scale  Wordsworth's  haughty  claim  for  average  man— 
"Such  is  the  inherent  dignity  of  human  nature  that 
there  belong  to  it  sublimities  of  virtue  which  all  men  may 
attain,  and  which  no  man  can  transcend." 

But,  aware  that  peace  and  prosperity  may  be  even 
still  severer  tests  of  national  as  of  individual  virtue  and 
greatness  of  mind,  Walt  Whitman  scans  with  anxious, 
questioning  eye  the  America  of  to-day.  He  is  no 
smooth-tongued  prophet  of  easy  greatness. 

"  I  am  he  who  walks  the  States  with  a  barb'd  tongue  ques 
tioning  every  one  I  meet; 

Who  are  you,  that  wanted  only  to  be  told  what  you  knew 
before? 

Who  are  you,  that  wanted  only  a  book  to  join  you  in  your 
nonsense?" 

He  sees  clearly  as  any  the  incredible  flippancy,  the  blind 
fury  of  parties,  the  lack  of  great  leaders,  the  plentiful 

52 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

meanness  and  vulgarity;  the  labour  question  beginning 
to  open  like  a  yawning  gulf.  .  .  ,  "We  sail  a 
dangerous  sea  of  seething  currents,  all  so  dark  and 
untried.  ...  It  seems  as  if  the  Almighty  had 
spread  before  this  nation  charts  of  imperial  destinies, 
dazzling  as  the  sun,  yet  with  many  a  deep  intestine 
difficulty,  and  human  aggregate  of  cankerous  imper 
fection  saying  lo!  the  roads!  The  only  plans  of 
development,  long  and  varied,  with  all  terrible  balks 
and  ebullitions!  You  said  in  your  soul,  I  will  be  empire 
of  empires,  putting  the  history  of  old-world  dynasties, 
conquests,  behind  me  as  of  no  account — making  a  new 
history,  a  history  of  democracy.  .  .  I  alone  inaugu 
rating  largeness,  culminating  time.  If  these,  O  lands 
of  America,  are  indeed  the  prizes,  the  determinations 
of  your  soul,  be  it  so.  But  behold  the  cost,  and  already 
specimens  of  the  cost.  Thought  you  greatness  was 
to  ripen  for  you  like  a  pear?  If  you  would  have  great 
ness,  know  that  you  must  conquer  it  through  ages  .  .  . 
must  pay  for  it  with  proportionate  price.  For  you,  too, 
as  for  all  lands,  the  struggle,  the  traitor,  the  wily  person 
in  office,  scrofulous  wealth,  the  surfeit  of  prosperity, 
the  demonism  of  greed,  the  hell  of  passion,  the  decay  of 
faith,  the  long  postponement,  the  fossil-like  lethargy, 
the  ceaseless  need  of  revolutions,  prophets,  thunder 
storms,  deaths,  new  projections  and  invigorations  of 
ideas  and  men." 

/  "Yet  I  have  dreamed,  merged  in  that  hidden-tangled 
problem  of  our  fate,  whose  long  unravelling  stretches 
mysteriously  through  time — dreamed,  portrayed, 
hinted  already — a  little  or  a  larger  band,  a  band  of  brave 

53 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

and  true,  unprecedented  yet,  arm'd  and  equipt  at 
every  point,  the  members  separated,  it  may  be  by 
different  dates  and  states,  or  south  or  north,  or  east 
or  west,  a  year,  a  century  here,  and  other  centuries 
there,  but  always  one,  compact  in  soul,  conscience-con 
serving,  God-inculcating,  inspired  achievers  not  only 
in  literature,  the  greatest  art,  but  achievers  in  all  art— 
a  new  undying  order,  dynasty  from  age  to  age  transmit 
ted,  a  band,  a  class  at  least  as  fit  to  cope  with  current 
years,  our  dangers,  needs,  as  those  who,  for  their  time, 
so  long,  so  well,  in  armour  or  in  cowl,  upheld  and  made 
illustrious  that  far-back-feudal,  priestly  world/' 

Of  that  band,  is  not  Walt  Whitman  the  pioneer?  Of 
that  New  World  literature,  say,  are  not  his  poems  the 
beginning?  A  rude  beginning  if  you  will.  He  claims 
no  more  and  no  less.  But  whatever  else  they  may  lack 
they  do  not  lack  vitality,  initiative,  sublimity.  They 
do  not  lack  that  which  makes  life  great  and  death,  with 
its  "transfers  and  promotions,  its  superb  vistas/'  ex 
hilarating — a  resplendent  faith  in  God  and  man  which 
will  kindle  anew  the  faith  of  the  world:— 

"  Poets  to  come !    Orators,  singers,  musicians  to  come ! 
Not  to-day  is  to  justify  me,  and  answer  what  I  am  for; 
But  you,  a  new  brood,  native,  athletic,  continental,  greater 
than  before  known, 

"Arouse!     Arouse — for  you  must  justify  me — you  must 
answer. 

"  I  myself  but  write  one  or  two  indicative  words  for  the  future, 
I  but  advance  a  moment,  only  to  wheel  and  hurry  back  in 
the  darkness. 

54 


ANNE  GILCHRIST 
Photogravure  from  a  painting  by  her  son,  made  in  1882 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

"I  am  a  man  who,  sauntering  along,  without  fully  stopping, 

turns  a  casual  look  upon  you,  and  then  averts  his  face, 
Leaving  it  to  you  to  prove  and  define  it, 
Expecting  the  main  things  from  you/' 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 


55 


LETTER    I1 

WALT    WHITMAN     TO    W.     M.     ROSSETTI 
AND     ANNE     GILCHRIST 

Washington, 

December  9,  1869. 
DEAR  MR.  ROSSETTI: 

Your  letter  of  last  summer  to  William  O'Connor  with  the 
passages  transcribed  from  a  lady's  correspondence,  had  been 
shown  me  by  him,  and  copy  lately  furnished  me,  which  I 
have  just  been  rereading.  I  am  deeply  touched  by  these 
sympathies  and  convictions,  coming  from  a  woman  and  from 
England,  and  am  sure  that  if  the  lady  knew  how  much 
comfort  it  has  been  to  me  to  get  them,  she  would  not  only 
pardon  you  for  transmitting  them  to  Mr.  O'Connor  but 
approve  that  action.  I  realize  indeed  of  this  emphatic  and 
smiling  well  done  from  the  heart  and  conscience  of  a  true 
wife  and  mother,  and  one  too  whose  sense  of  the  poetic, 
as  I  glean  from  your  letter,  after  flowing  through  the  heart 
and  conscience,  must  also  move  through  and  satisfy  science 
as  much  as  the  esthetic,  that  I  had  hitherto  received  no 
eulogium  so  magnificent. 

I  send  by  same  mail  with  this,  same  address  as  this  letter, 
two  photographs,  taken  within  a  few  months.  One  is 
intended  for  the  lady  (if  I  may  be  permitted  to  send  it  her) 
— and  will  you  please  accept  the  other,  with  my  respects  and 
love?  The  picture  is  by  some  criticised  very  severely  indeed, 

1  Reprinted  from  Horace  Traubel's  "With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden,"  I,  219-220. 
Although  addressed  to  Rossetti,  this  letter  is  evidently  intended  as  much  for  Mrs.  Gilchrist. 
whose  name  was  not  at  this  time  known  to  Whitman. 

56 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

but  I  hope  you  will  not  dislike  it,  for  I  confess  to  myself  a 
perhaps  capricious  fondness  for  it,  as  my  own  portrait,  over 
some  scores  that  have  been  made  or  taken  at  one  time  or 
another. 

I  am  still  employed  in  the  Attorney  General's  office.  My 
p.  o.  address  remains  the  same.  I  am  quite  well  and  hearty. 
My  new  editions,  considerably  expanded,  with  what  sug 
gestions  &c.  I  have  to  offer,  presented  I  hope  in  more  definite 
form,  will  probably  get  printed  the  coming  spring.  I  shall 
forward  you  early  copies.  I  send  my  love  to  Moncure  Con- 
way,  if  you  see  him.  I  wish  he  would  write  to  me.  If  the 
pictures  don't  come,  or  get  injured  on  the  way,  I  will  try  again 
by  express.  I  want  you  to  loan  this  letter  to  the  lady,  or 
if  she  wishes  it,  give  it  to  her  to  keep. 

WALT  WHITMAN. 


57 


,  LETTE  R     II 

ANNE    GILCHRIST    TO    WALT   WHITMAN 

September  3,   1871. 
DEAR  FRIEND: 

At  last  the  beloved  books  have  reached  my  hand — but  now 
I  have  them,  my  heart  is  so  rent  with  anguish,  my  eyes  so 
blinded,  I  cannot  read  in  them.  I  try  again  and  again,  but 
too  great  waves  come  swaying  up  &  suffocate  me.  I  will 
struggle  to  tell  you  my  story.  It  seems  to  me  a  death 
struggle.  When  I  was  eighteen  !  met  a  lad  of  nineteen1 
who  loved  me  then,  and  always  for  the  remainder  of  his 
life.  After  we  had  known  each  other  about  a  year  he  asked 
me  to  be  his  wife.  But  I  said  that  I  liked  him  well  as  my 
friend,  but  could  not  love  him  as  a  wife  should  love  & 
felt  deeply  convinced  I  never  should.  He  was  not  turned 
aside,  but  went  on  just  the  same  as  if  that  conversation  had 
never  passed.  After  a  year  he  asked  me  again,  and  I,  deeply 
moved  by  and  grateful  for  his  steady  love,  and  so  sorry  for 
him,  said  yes.  But  next  day,  terrified  at  what  I  had  done 
and  painfully  conscious  of  the  dreary  absence  from  my  heart 
of  any  faintest  gleam  of  true,  tender,  wifely  love,2  said  no 
again.  This  too  he  bore  without  desisting  &  at  the  end 
of  some  months  once  more  asked  me  with  passionate  en 
treaties^  Then,  dear  friend,  I  prayed  very  earnestly,  and 

»  Alexander  Gilchrist. 

1  Mrs.  Gilchrist's  emotion  here  apparently  prevents  her  memory  from  doing  complete 
justice  to  her  own  past.  For  a  very  different  expression  of  her  feelings  toward  Alexander 
Gilchrist,  written  at  the  time  of  her  betrothal,  see  her  letter  announcing  the  engagement 
which  she  sent  to.her  friend,  Julia  Newton,  and  which  is  to  be  found  on  pp.  30-31  of  her  son's 
biography. 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

it  seemed  to  me  (that)  that  I  should  continue  to  mar  & 
thwart  his  life  so  was  not  right,  if  he  was  content  to  accept 
what  I  could  give.  I  knew  I  could  lead  a  good  and  whole 
some  life  beside  him — his  aims  were  noble — his  heart  a  deep, 
beautiful,  true  Poet's  heart;  but  he  had  not  the  Poet's  great 
brain.  His  path  was  a  very  arduous  one,  and  I  knew  I  could 
smooth  it  for  him — cheer  him  along  it.  It  seemed  to  me 
God's  will  that  I  should  marry  him.  So  I  told  him  the  whole 
truth,  and  he  said  he  would  rather  have  me  on  those  terms 
than  not  have  me  at  all.  He  said  to  me  many  times,  "Ah, 
Annie,  it  is  not  you  who  are  so  loved  that  is  rich;  it  is  I  who 
so  love/'  And  I  knew  this  was  true,  felt  as  if  my  nature 
were  poor  &  barren  beside  his.  But  it  was  not  so,  it  was 
only  slumbering — undeveloped.  For,  dear  Friend,  my  soul 
was  so  passionately  aspiring — it  so  thirsted  &  pined  for 
light,  it  had  not  power  to  reach  alone  and  he  could  not  help 
me  on  my  way.  And  a  woman  is  so  made  that  she  cannot 
give  the  tender  passionate  devotion  of  her  whole  nature  save 
to  the  great  conquering  soul,  stronger  in  its  powers,  though 
not  in  its  aspirations,  than  her  own,  that  can  lead  her  for 
ever  &  forever  up  and  on.  It  is  for  her  soul  exactly  as 
it  is  for  her  body.  The  strong  divine  soul  of  the  man  embrac 
ing  hers  with  passionate  love — so  alone  the  precious  germs 
within  her  soul  can  be  quickened  into  life.  And  the  time 
will  come  when  man  will  understand  that  a  woman's  soul  is 
as  dear  and  needful  to  his  and  as  different  from  his  as  her 
body  to  his  body.  This  was  what  happened  to  me  when  I 
had  read  for  a  few  days,  nay,  hours,  in  your  books.  It  was 
the  divine  soul  embracing  mine.  I  never  before  dreamed 
what  love  meant:  not  what  life  meant.  Never  was  alive 
before — no  words  but  those  of  "new  birth"  can  hint  the 
meaning  of  what  then  happened  to  me. 

The  first  few  months  of  my  marriage  were  dark  and  gloomy 
to  me  within,  and  sometimes  I  had  misgivings  whether  I  had 

59 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

judged  aright,  but  when  I  knew  there  was  a  dear  baby 
coming  my  heart  grew  light,  and  when  it  was  born,  such  a 
superb  child — all  gloom  &  fear  forever  vanished.  I  knew 
it  was  God's  seal  to  the  marriage,  and  my  heart  was  full  of 
gratitude  and  joy.  It  was  a  happy  and  a  good  life  we  led 
together  for  ten  short  years,  he  ever  tender  and  affectionate 
to  me — loving  his  children  so,  working  earnestly  in  the 
wholesome,  bracing  atmosphere  of  poverty — for  it  was  but 
just  possible  with  the  most  strenuous  frugality  and  industry 
to  pay  our  way.  I  learned  to  cook  &  to  turn  my  hand  to 
all  household  occupation — found  it  bracing,  healthful,  cheer 
ful.  Now  I  think  it  more  even  now  that  I  understand  the 
divineness  &  sacredness  of  the  Body.  I  think  there  is  no 
more  beautiful  task  for  a  woman  than  ministering  all  ways  to 
the  health  &  comfort  &  enjoyment  of  the  dear  bodies 
of  those  she  loves:  no  material  that  will  work  sweeter, 
more  beautifully  into  that  making  of  a  perfect  poem  of  a 
man's  life  which  is  her  true  vocation. 

In  1 86 1  my  children  took  scarlet  fever  badly:  I  thought 
I  should  have  lost  my  dear  oldest  girl.  Then  my  husband 
took  it — and  in  five  days  it  carried  him  from  me.  I  think, 
dear  friend,  my  sorrow  was  far  more  bitter,  though  not  so 
deep,  as  that  of  a  loving  tender  wife.  As  I  stood  by  him  in 
the  coffin  I  felt  such  remorse  I  had  not,  could  not  have,  been 
more  tender  to  him — such  a  conviction  that  if  I  had  loved  him 
as  he  deserved  to  be  loved  he  would  not  have  been  taken  from 
us.  To  the  last  my  soul  dwelt  apart  &  unmated  &  his 
soul  dwelt  apart  unmated.  I  do  not  fear  the  look  of  his  dear 
silent  eyes.  I  do  not  think  he  would  even  be  grieved  with  me 
now.  My  youngest  was  then  a  baby.  I  have  had  much 
sweet  tranquil  happiness,  much  strenuous  work  and  en 
deavour  raising  my  darlings. 

In  May,  1869,  came  the  voice  over  the  Atlantic  to  me — 
O,  the  voice  of  my  Mate:  it  must  be  so — my  love  rises  up  out 

60 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

of  the  very  depths  of  the  grief  &  tramples  upon  despair. 
I  can  wait — any  time,  a  lifetime,  many  lifetimes — I  can  suffer, 
I  can  dare,  I  can  learn,  grow,  toil,  but  nothing  in  life  or 
death  can  tear  out  of  my  heart  the  passionate  belief  that  one 
day  I  shall  hear  that  voice  say  to  me,  "  My  Mate.  The  one 
I  so  much  want.  Bride,  Wife,  indissoluble  eternal!"  It  is 
not  happiness  I  plead  with  God  for — it  is  the  very  life  of 
my  Soul,  my  love  is  its  life.  Dear  Walt.  It  is  a  sweet  & 
precious  thing,  this  love;  it  clings  so  close,  so  close  to  the 
Soul  and  Body,  all  so  tenderly  dear,  so  beautiful,  so  sacred; 
it  yearns  with  such  passion  to  soothe  and  comfort  &  fill  thee 
with  sweet  tender  joy;  it  aspires  as  grandly  as  gloriously  as 
thy  own  soul.  Strong  to  soar — soft  &  tender  to  nestle  and 
caress.  If  God  were  to  say  to  me,  "See — he  that  you  love 
you  shall  not  be  given  to  in  this  life — he  is  going  to  set  sail 
on  the  unknown  sea — will  you  go  with  him?"  never  yet  has 
bride  sprung  into  her  husband's  arms  with  the  joy  with 
which  I  would  take  thy  hand  &  spring  from  the  shore. 

Understand  aright,  dear  love,  the  reason  of  my  silence.  I 
was  obeying  the  voice  of  conscience.  I  thought  I  was  to 
wait.  For  it  is  the  instinct  of  a  woman's  nature  to  wait  to 
be  sought — not  to  seek.  And  when  that  May  &  June  I 
was  longing  so  irrepressibly  to  write  I  resolutely  restrained 
myself,  believing  if  I  were  only  patient  the  right  opening 
would  occur.  And  so  it  did  through  Rossetti.  And  when 
he,  liking  what  I  said,  suggested  my  printing  something,  it 
met  and  enabled  me  to  carry  into  execution  what  I  was  brood 
ing  over.  For  I  had,  and  still  have,  a  strong  conviction  that 
it  was  necessary  for  a  woman  to  speak — that  finally  and 
decisively  only  a  woman  can  judge  a  man,  only  a  man  a 
woman,  on  the  subject  of  their  relations.  What  is  blame 
less,  what  is  good  in  its  effect  on  her,  is  good — however  it 
may  have  seemed  to  men.  She  is  the  test.  And  I  never  for 
a  moment  feared  any  hard  words  against  myself  because  I 

61 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

know  these  things  are  not  judged  by  the  intellect  but  by  the 
unerring  instincts  of  the  soul.  I  knew  any  man  could  not  but 
feel  that  it  would  be  a  happy  and  ennobling  thing  for  him 
that  his  wife  should  think  &  feel  as  I  do  on  that  subject — 
knew  that  what  had  filled  me  with  such  great  and  beautiful 
thoughts  towards  men  in  that  writing  could  not  fail  to  give 
them  good  &  happy  thoughts  towards  women  in  the 
reading.  The  cause  of  my  consenting  to  Rossetti's1  urgent 
advice  that  I  should  not  put  my  name,  he  so  kindly  solici 
tous,  yet  not  altogether  understanding  me  &  it  aright,  was 
that  I  did  not  rightly  understand  how  it  might  be  with  my 
dear  Boy  if  it  came  before  him.  I  thought  perhaps  he  was 
not  old  enough  to  judge  and  understand  me  aright;  nor 
young  enough  to  let  it  altogether  alone.  But  it  has  been 
very  bitter  &  hateful  to  me  this  not  standing  to  what  1  have 
said  as  it  were,  with  my  own  personality,  better  because  of 
my  utter  love  and  faithfulness  to  the  cause  &  longing  to 
stand  openly  and  proudly  in  the  ranks  of  its  friends;  &  for 
the  lower  reason  that  my  nature  is  proud  and  as  defiant  as 
thine  own  and  immeasurably  disdains  any  faintest  appear 
ance  of  being  afraid  of  what  I  had  done. 

And,  my  darling,  above  all  because  I  love  thee  so  tenderly 
that  if  hateful  words  had  been  spoken  against  me  I  could 
have  taken  joy  in  it  for  thy  dear  sake.  There  never  yet  was 
the  woman  who  loved  that  would  not  joyfully  bare  her  breast 
to  wrest  the  blows  aimed  at  her  beloved. 

I  know  not  what  fiend  made  me  write  tnose  meaningless 
words  in  my  letter,  "it  is  pleasantest  to  me"  &c.,  but  it  was 
not  fear  or  faithlessness — &  it  is  not  pleasantest  but  hateful 
to  me.  Now  let  me  come  to  beautiful  joyous  things  again. 
O  dear  Walt,  did  you  not  feel  in  every  word  the  breath  of  a 
woman's  love?  did  you  not  see  as  through  a  transparent 
veil  a  soul  all  radiant  and  trembling  with  love  stretching  out 

» William  M-ichael  Rossetti. 

62 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

its  arms  towards  you?  I  was  so  sure  you  would  speak,  would 
send  me  some  sign:  that  I  was  to  wait — wait.  So  I  fed  my 
heart  with  sweet  hopes:  strengthened  it  with  looking  into 
the  eyes  of  thy  picture.  O  surely  in  the  ineffable  tender 
ness  of  thy  look  speaks  the  yearning  of  thy  man-soul  towards 
my  woman-soul?  But  now  I  will  wait  no  longer.  A  higher 
instinct  dominates  that  other,  the  instinct  for  perfect  truth. 
I  would  if  I  could  lay  every  thought  and  action  and  feeling  of 
my  whole  life  open  to  thee  as  it  lies  to  the  eye  of  God.  But 
that  cannot  be  all  at  once.  O  come.  Come,  my  darling: 
look  into  these  eyes  and  see  the  loving  ardent  aspiring  soul 
in  them.  Easily,  easily  will  you  learn  to  love  all  the  rest  of 
me  for  the  sake  of  that  and  take  me  to  your  breasts  for  ever 
and  ever.  Out  of  its  great  anguish  my  love  has  risen  stron 
ger,  more  triumphant  than  ever:  it  cannot  doubt,  cannot 
fear,  is  strong,  divine,  immortal,  sure  of  its  fruition  this  .side 
the  grave  or  the  other.  "O  agonistic  throes/'  tender, 
passionate  yearnings,  pinings,  triumphant  joys,  sweet 
dreams — I  too  from  you  all.  But,  dear  love,  the  sinews  of  a 
woman's  outer  heart  are  not  twisted  so  strong  as  a  man's: 
but  the  heart  within  is  strong  &  great  &  loving.  So  the 
strain  is  very  terrible.  O  heart  of  flesh,  hold  on  yet  a  few 
years  to  the  great  heart  within  thee,  if  it  may  be.  But  if  not 
all  is  assured,  all  is  safe. 

This  time  last  year  when  I  seemed  dying  I  could  have  no 
secrets  between  me  &  my  dear  children.  I  told  them  of  my 
love:  told  them  all  they  could  rightly  understand,  and  laid 
upon  them  my  earnest  injunction  that  as  soon  as  my  mother's 
life  no  longer  held  them  here,  they  should  go  fearlessly  to 
America,  as  I  should  have  planted  them  down  there — Land  of 
Promise,  my  Canaan,  to  which  my  soul  sings,  "Arise,  shine, 
for  thy  light  is  come  &  the  glory  of  the  Lord  is  risen  upon 
thee."  After  the  29th  of  this  month  I  shall  be  in  my  own 
home,  dear  friend — it  is  at  Brookebank,  Haslemere,  Surrey. 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

Haslemere  is  on  the  main  line  between  Portsmouth  & 
London. 

Good-bye,  dear  Walt, 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 

Sept.  6. 

The  new  portrait  also  is  a  sweet  joy  &  comfort  to  my  long 
ing,  pining  heart  &  eyes.  How  have  I  brooded  & 
brooded  with  thankfulness  on  that  one  word  in  thy  letter1 
"the  comfort  it  has  been  to  me  to  get  her  words/'  for  always 
day  &  night  these  two  years  has  hovered  on  my  lips  &  in 
my  heart  the  one  prayer:  "Dear  God,  let  me  comfort  him!" 
Let  me  comfort  thee  with  my  whole  being,  dear  love.  I  feel 
much  better  &  stronger  now. 


>  To  W.  M.  Rossetti.    See  ante,  p.  x. 


LETTER     III 

ANNE    GILCHRIST    TO    WALT   WHITMAN 

Brookebank,  Shotter  Mill 
Haslemere,  Surrey 

October  23,  1871. 
DEAR  FRIEND: 

I  wrote  you  a  letter  the  6th  September  &  would  fain 
know  whether  it  has  reached  your  hand.  If  it  have  not,  I 
will  write  its  contents  again  quickly  to  you — if  it  have,  I 
will  wait  your  time  wi*h  courage  with  patience  for  an  answer; 
but  spare  me  the  needless  'suffering  of  uncertainty  on  this 
point  &  let  me  have  one  line,  .one  word,  of  assurance  that  I 
am  no  longer  hidden  from  you  by  a  thick  cloud — I  from  thee 
— not  thou  from  me :  for  I  that  have  never  set  eyes  upon  thee, 
all  the  Atlantic  flowing  between  us,  yet  cleave  closer  than 
those  that  stand  nearest  &  dearest  around  thee — love  thee 
day  &  night: — last  thoughts,  first  thoughts,  my  soul's 
passionate  yearning  toward  thy  divine  Soul,  every  hour, 
every  deed  and  thought — my  love  for  my  children,  my 
hopes,  aspirations  for  them,  all  taking  new  shape,  new 
height  through  this  great  love.  My  Soul  has  staked  all  upon 
it.  In  dull  dark  moods  when  I  cannot,  as  it  were,  see  thee, 
still,  still  always  a  dumb,  blind  yearning  towards  thee — still 
it  comforts  me  to  touch,  to  press  to  me  the  beloved  books — 
like  a  child  holding  some  hand  in  the  dark — it  knows  not 
whose — but  knows  it  is  enough — knows  it  is  a  dear,  strong, 
comforting  hand.  Do  not  say  I  am  forward,  or  that  I 
lack  pride  because  I  tell  this  love  to  thee  who  have  never 
sought  or  made  sign  of  desiring  to  seek  me.  Oh,  for  all 

65 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

that,  this  love  is  my  pride  my  glory.  Source  of  sufferings 
and  joys  that  cannot  put  themselves  into  words.  Besides, 
it  is  not  true  thou  hast  not  sought  or  loved  me.  For  when  I 
read  the  divine  poems  I  feel  all  folded  round  in  thy  love:  I 
feel  often  as  if  thou  wast  pleading  so  passionately  for  the  love 
of  the  woman  that  can  understand  thee — that  I  know  not  how 
to  bear  the  yearning  answering  tenderness  that  fills  my 
breast.  I  know  that  a  woman  may  without  hurt  to  her 
pride — without  stain  or  blame — tell  her  love  to  thee.  I  feel 
for  a  certainty  that  she  may.  Try  me  for  this  life,  my  dar 
ling — see  if  I  cannot  so  live,  so  grow,  so  learn,  so  love,  that 
when  I  die  you  will  say,  "This  woman  has  grown  to  be  a 
very  part  of  me.  My  soul  must  have  her  loving  companion 
ship  everywhere  &  in  all  things.  I  alone  &  she  alone 
are  not  complete  identities — it  is  I  and  she  together  in  a  new, 
divine,  perfect  union  that  form  the  one  complete  identity." 

I  am  yet  young  enough  to  bear  thee  children,  my  darling, 
if  God  should  so  bless  me.  And  would  yield  my  life  for  this 
cause  with  serene  joy  if  it  were  so  appointed,  if  that  were  the 
price  for  thy  having  a  "perfect  child" — knowing  my  darlings 
would  all  be  safe  &  happy  in  thy  loving  care — planted  down 
in  America. 

Let  me  have  a  few  words  directly,  dear  Friend.  I  shall 
get  them  by  the  middle  of  November.  I  shall  have  to  go  to 
London  about  then  or  a  little  later — to  find  a  house  for  us — 
I  only  came  to  the  old  home  here  from  which  I  have  been 
absent  most  four  years  to  wind  up  matters  and  prepare  for  a 
move,  for  there  is  nothing  to  be  had  in  the  way  of  educational 
advantages  here — it  has  been  a  beautiful  survey  for  the 
children,  but  it  is  not  what  they  want  now.  But  we  leave 
with  regret,  for  it  is  one  of  the  sweetest,  wildest  spots  in 
England,  though  only  40  miles  from  London. 

Good-bye,  dear  friend, 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 
66 


LETTER     IV1 

WALT    WHITMAN    TO    ANNE    GILCHRIST 

Washington,  D.  C. 
November  3,  1871. 

(To  A.  G.,  EARL'S  COLNE,  HALSTED,  ESSEX,  ENG.) 

I  have  been  waiting  quite  a  while  for  time  and  the  right 
mood,  to  answer  your  letter  in  a  spirit  as  serious  as  its  own, 
and  in  the  same  unmitigated  trust  and  affection.  But  more 
daily  work  than  ever  has  fallen  to  me  to  do  the  present 
season,  and  though  I  am  well  and  contented,  my  best  moods 
seem  to  shun  me.  I  wish  to  give  to  it  a  day,  a  sort  of  Sab 
bath,  or  holy  day,  apart  to  itself,  under  serene  and  propitious 
influences,  confident  that  I  could  then  write  you  a  letter 
which  would  do  you  good,  and  me  too.  But  I  must  at  least 
show  without  further  delay  that  I  am  not  insensible  to 
your  love.  I  too  send  you  my  love.  And  do  you  feel  no 
disappointment  because  I  now  write  so  briefly.  My  book 
is  my  best  letter,  my  response,  my  truest  explanation  of  all. 
In  it  I  have  put  my  body  and  spirit.  You  understand  this 
better  and  fuller  and  clearer  than  any  one  else.  And  I  too 
fully  and  clearly  understand  the  loving  letter  it  has  evoked. 
Enough  that  there  surely  exists  so  beautiful  and  a  delicate 
relation,  accepted  by  both  of  us  with  joy. 


1  First  printed  in  Horace  Traubel's  "  With  Walt  Whitman  in  Camden,"  1 1 1,  5 13. 


67 


LETTER    V 

ANNE     GI  LCH  RI  ST    TO    WA  LT    WH  ITM  AN 

27  November  '71. 
DEAR  FRIEND. 

Your  long  waited  for  letter  brought  me  both  joy  &  pain; 
but  the  pain  was  not  of  your  giving.  I  gather  from  it  that 
a  long  letter1  which  I  wrote  you  Sept.  6th  after  I  had 
received  the  precious  packet,  a  letter  in  which  I  opened  all 
my  heart  to  you,  never  reached  your  hands:  nor  yet  a  shorter 
one2  which,  tortured  by  anxiety  &  suspense  about  its 
predecessor,  I  wrote  Oct.  15,  it,  too,  written  out  of  such 
stress  &  intensity  of  painful  emotion  as  wrenches  from  us 
inmost  truth.  I  cannot  face  the  thought  of  these  words  of 
uttermost  trust  &  love  having  fallen  into  other  hands. 
Can  both  be  simply  lost?  Could  any  man  suffer  a  base 
curiosity,  to  make  him  so  meanly,  treacherously  cruel?  It 
seems  to  cut  and  then  burn  me. 

I  was  not  disappointed  at  the  shortness  of  your  letter  & 
I  do  not  ask  nor  even  wish  you  to  write  save  when  you  are 
inwardly  impelled  &  desirous  of  doing  so.  I  only  want 
leave  and  security  to  write  freely  to  you.  Your  book  does 
indeed  say  all — book  that  is  not  a  book,  for  the  first  time  a 
man  complete,  godlike,  august,  standing  revealed  the  only 
way  possible,  through  the  garment  of  speech.  Do  you  know, 
dear  Friend,  what  it  means  for  a  woman,  what  it  means  for 
me,  to  understand  these  poems?  It  means  for  her  whole 

>  Evidently  meaning  the  letter  of  September  3d. 
•Missing. 

68 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

nature  to  be  then  first  kindled;  quickened  into  life  through 
such  love,  such  sympathy,  such  resistless  attraction,  that 
thenceforth  she  cannot  choose  but  live  &  die  striving  to 
become  worthy  to  share  this  divine  man's  life — to  be  his  dear 
companion,  closer,  nearer,  dearer  than  any  man  can  be — for 
ever  so.  Her  soul  stakes  all  on  this.  It  is  the  meaning,  the 
fulfilment,  the  only  perfect  development  &  consummation 
of  her  nature — of  her  passionate,  high,  immortal  aspirations 
—her  Soul  to  mate  with  his  for  ever  &  ever.  O  I  know  the 
terms  are  obdurate — I  know  how  hard  to  attain  to  this 
greatness,  the  grandest  lot  ever  aspired  to  by  woman.  I 
know  too  my  own  shortcomings,  faults,  flaws.  You  might 
not  be  able  to  give  me  your  great  love  yet — to  take  me  to 
your  breast  with  joy.  But  I  can  wait.  I  can  grow  great  & 
beautiful  through  sorrow  &  suffering,  working,  struggling, 
yearning,  loving  so,  all  alone,  as  I  have  done  now  nearly 
three  years — it  will  be  three  in  May  since  I  first  read  the 
book,  first  knew  what  the  word  love  meant.  Love  & 
Hope  are  so  strong  in  me,  my  soul's  high  aspirations  are  of 
such  tenacious,  passionate  intensity,  are  so  conscious  of 
their  own  deathless  reality,  that  what  would  starve  them  out 
of  any  other  woman  only  makes  them  strike  out  deeper 
roots,  grow  more  resolute  &  sturdy,  in  me.  I  know  that 
"  greatness  will  not  ripen  for  me  like  a  pear."  But  I  could 
face,  I  could  joyfully  accept,  the  fiercest  anguish,  the  hard 
est  toil,  the  longest,  sternest  probation,  to  make  me  fit  to 
be  your  mate — so  that  at  the  last  you  should  say,  "This  is 
the  woman  I  have  waited  for,  the  woman  prepared  for  me: 
this  is  my  dear  eternal  comrade,  wife — the  one  I  so  much 
want."  Life  has  no  other  meaning  for  me  than  that— all 
things  have  led  up  to  help  prepare  me  for  that.  Death  is 
more  welcome  to  me  than  life  if  it  means  that — if  thou,  dear 
sailor,  thou  sailing  upon  thy  endless  cruise,  takest  me  on 
board — me,  daring,  all  with  thee,  steering  for  the  deep 

69 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

waters,  bound  where  mariner  has  not  yet  dared  to  go:  hand  in 
hand  with  thee,  nestled  close — one  with  thee.  Ah,  that 
word  "enough"  was  like  a  blow  on  the  breast  to  me — breast 
that  often  &  often  is  so  full  of  yearning  tenderness  I  know 
not  how  to  draw  my  breath.  The  tie  between  us  would  not 
grow  less  but  more  beautiful,  dear  friend,  if  you  knew  me 
better:  if  I  could  stand  as  real  &  near  to  you  as  you  do  to  me. 
But  I  cannot,  like  you,  clothe  my  nature  in  divine  poems  & 
so  make  it  visible  to  you.  Ah,  foolish  me!  I  thought  you 
would  catch  a  glimpse  of  it  in  those  words  I  wrote — I  thought 
you  would  say  to  yourself,  "  Perhaps  this  is  the  voice  of  my 
mate,"  and  would  seek  me  a  little  to  make  sure  if  it  were  so 
or  not.  O  the  sweet  dreams  I  have  fed  on  these  three 
years  nearly,  pervading  my  waking  moments,  influencing 
every  thought  &  action.  I  was  so  sure,  so  sure  if  I  waited 
silently,  patiently,  you  would  send  me  some  sign:  so  full  of 
joyful  hope  I  could  not  doubt  nor  fear.  When  I  lay  dying  as 
it  seemed,  [I  was]  still  full  of  the  radiant  certainty  that  you 
would  seek  me,  would  not  lose  [me],  that  we  should  as  surely 
find  one  another  there  as  here.  And  when  the  ebb  ceased  & 
life  began  to  flow  back  into  me,  O  never  doubting  but  it  was 
for  you.  Never  doubting  but  that  the  sweetest,  noblest, 
closest,  tenderest  companionship  ever  yet  tasted  by  man 
&  woman  was  to  begin  for  us  here  &  now.  Then  came 
the  long,  long  waiting,  the  hope  deferred:  each  morning  so 
sure  the  book  would  come  &  with  it  a  word  from  you  that 
should  give  me  leave  to  speak:  no  longer  to  shut  down  in 
stern  silence  the  love,  the  yearning,  the  thoughts  that  seemed 
to  strain  &  crush  my  heart.  I  knew  what  that  means — 
"if  thou  wast  not  gifted  to  sing  thou  wouldst  surely  die." 
I  felt  as  if  my  silence  must  kill  me  sometimes.  Then  when 
the  Book  came  but  with  it  no  word  for  me  alone,  there  was 
such  a  storm  in  [my]  heart  I  could  not  for  weeks  read  in  it. 
I  wrote  that  long  letter  out  in  the  Autumn  fields  for  dear 

70 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

life's  sake.  I  knew  I  might,  and  must,  speak  then.  Then 
I  felt  relieved,  joyful,  buoyant  once  more.  Then  again 
months  of  heart-wearying  disappointment  as  I  looked  in 
vain  for  a  letter — O  the  anguish  at  times,  the  scalding  tears, 
the  feeling  within  as  if  my  heart  were  crushed  &  doubled 
up — but  always  afterwards  saying  to  myself  "  If  this  suffer 
ing  is  to  make  my  love  which  was  born  &  grew  up  & 
blossomed  all  in  a  moment  strike  deep  root  down  in  the  dark 
&  cold,  penetrate  with  painful  intensity  every  fibre  of  my 
being,  make  it  a  love  such  as  he  himself  is  capable  of  giving, 
then  welcome  this  anguish,  these  bitter  deferments:  let  its 
roots  be  watered  as  long  as  God  pleases  with  my  tears." 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 
50  Marquis  Road 

London 
Camden  Sqr.  N.  W. 


LETTER     VI 

ANNE     GILCHRIST    TO    WALT    WHITMAN 

50  Marquis  Road,  Camden  Sqre. 
London,  N.  W., 

January  24,  '72. 
DEAR  FRIEND: 

I  send  you  photographs  of  my  oldest  and  youngest  chil 
dren,  I  wish  I  had  some  worth  sending  of  the  other  two. 
That  of  myself  done  in  1850  is  a  copy  of  a  daguerrotype. 
The  recent  one  was  taken  just  a  week  or  so  before  I  broke 
down  in  my  long  illness  &  when  I  was  struggling  against  a 
terrible  sense  of  inward  prostration;  so  it  has  not  my  natural 
expression,  but  I  think  you  will  like  to  have  [it]  rather  than 
none,  &  the  weather  here  is  too  gloomy  for  there  to  be 
any  chance  of  a  good  one  if  I  were  to  try  again.  Your  few 
words  lifted  a  heavy  weight  off  me.  Very  few  they  are,  dear 
friend:  but  knowing  that  I  may  give  to  every  word  you  speak 
its  fullest,  truest  meaning,  the  more  I  brood  over  them  the 
sweeter  do  they  taste.  Still  I  am  not  as  happy  &  content 
as  I  thought  I  should  be  if  I  could  only  know  my  words 
reached  you  &  were  welcome  to  you, — but  restless,  anxious, 
impatient,  looking  so  wistfully  towards  the  letters  each 
morning — above  all,  longing,  longing  so  for  you  to  come — 
to  come  &  see  if  you  feel  happy  beside  me:  no  more  this 
painful  struggle  to  put  myself  into  words,  but  to  let  what  I 
am  &  all  my  life  speak  to  you.  Only  so  can  you  judge 
whether  I  am  indeed  the  woman  capable  of  rising  to  the  full 
height  of  great  destiny,  of  justifying  &  fulfilling  your  grand 

72 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

thoughts  of  women.  And  see  my  faults,  flaws,  shortcomings 
too,  dear  Friend.  I  feel  an  earnest  wish  you  should  do  this 
too  that  there  may  be  the  broad  unmovable  foundation- 
rock  of  perfect  truth  and  candour  for  our  love.  I  do  not 
fear.  I  believe  in  a  large  all-accepting,  because  all-compre 
hending,  love,  a  boundless  faith  in  growth  &  development — 
in  your  judging  "  not  as  the  judge  judges  but  as  the  sunshine 
falling  around  me."  To  have  you  in  the  midst  of  us!  we 
clustered  round  you,  shone  upon,  vivified,  strengthened  by 
your  presence,  surrounding  you  with  an  atmosphere  of  love 
&  cheerful  life. 

When  I  wrote  to  you  in  Nov.  I  was  in  lodgings  in 
London,  having  just  accomplished  the  difficult  task  of  find 
ing  a  house  for  us  in  London,  where  rents  are  so  high.  And 
I  have  succeeded  better  than  I  anticipated,  for  we  find  this 
a  comfortable,  dear,  little  home — small,  indeed,  but  not  so 
small  as  to  interfere  with  health  or  comfort,  and  at  rent  that 
I  may  safely  undertake.  My  Husband  was  taken  from  us 
too  young  to  be  able  to  have  made  any  provision  for  his 
children.  I  have  a  little  of  my  own — about  £80  a  year;  & 
for  the  rest  depend  upon  my  Mother,  whose  only  surviving 
child  I  am.  And  she,  by  nature  generous  &  self-denying 
as  well  as  prudent,  has  never  made  anything  but  a  pleasure 
of  this  &  as  long  as  she  was  able  to  see  to  her  own  affairs, 
was  such  a  capital  manager  that  she  used  to  spare  me  about 
£i  50  out  of  an  income  of  £350.  But  now  though  she  retains 
her  faculties  in  a  wonderful  degree  for  her  years  (just  upon 
86),  she  is  no  longer  able  to  do  this  &  has  put  the  manage 
ment  of  the  whole  into  my  hands.  And  I,  feeling  that  she 
needs,  and  ought  to  have,  now  an  easier  scale  of  expenditure 
at  Colne,  have  to  manage  a  little  more  cleverly  still  to  make 
a  less  sum  serve  for  us.  But  I  succeed  capitally,  dear 
friend — do  not  want  a  better  home,  never  get  behind  hand 
&  find  it  no  hardship,  but  quite  the  contrary  to  have  to 

73 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

spend  a  good  deal  of  time  &  pains  in  domestic  management. 
And  then,  just  to  help  me  through  at  the  right  moment,  dear 
Percy1  obtained  in  November  a  good  opening  in  some  large 
copper  &  iron  mining  &  smelting  works  in  South  Wales 
at  a  salary  upon  which  he  can  comfortably  live;  &  he  likes 
his  work  well — writes  very  cheerfully — lodges  in  a  farm 
house  in  the  midst  of  grand  scenery,  within  a  walk  of  the 
sea.  So  this  enables  me  to  give  the  girls  a  turn  in  education, 
for  hitherto  they  have  had  hardly  any  teaching  but  mine. 
And  I  chose  this  part  because  there  is  a  capital  day  school 
for  them  Jiandy.  And  Herby2  walks  in  to  the  best  drawing 
school  in  London  &  is  very  diligent  and  happy  at  his 
work.  His  bent  is  unmistakably  strong.  It  was  well  I 
have  had  to  be  so  busy  this  autumn  &  winter,  dear  Walt,  for  I 
suffered  keenly,  sometimes  overwhelmingly,  through  the 
delay  in  my  letters'  reaching  you.  What  caused  it?  And 
when  did  you  get  the  Sept.  &  Oct.  letters  &  did  you  get  the 
two  copies  that  I,  baffled  &  almost  despairing,  sent  of?  in 
Nov.?  Good-bye,  dear  Friend. 

ANNIE  GILCHRIST. 

1  Percy  Carlyle  Gilchrist  who  became  an  inventive  metallurgist. 
'Herbert  Harlakenden  Gilchrist,  who  became  an  artist.      M 


74 


LETTER    VII1 

WALT  WHITMAN   TO   ANNE    GILCHRIST 

(Washington,  D.  C.) 

Feb.  8  '72. 

I  send  by  same  mail  with  this  my  latest  piece  copied  in  a 
newspaper — and  write  you  just  a  line.  I  suppose  you  only 
received  my  former  letters  (two) — I  ought  to  have  writ 
ten  something  about  your  children  (described  to  me  in  your 
letter  of  last  summer — [July  23d]  which  I  have  just  been 
reading  again.)  Dear  boys  and  girls — how  my  heart  goes 
out  to  them. 

Did  I  tell  you  that  I  had  received  letters  from  Tennyson, 
and  that  he  cordially  invites  me  to  visit  him?  Sometimes  I 
dream  of  coming  to  Old  England,  on  such  visit. — &  thus  of 
seeing  you  &  your  children But  it  is  a  dream  only. 

I  am  still  living  here  in  employment  in  a  Government 
office.  My  health  is  good.  Life  is  rather  sluggish  here — yet 
not  without  the  sunshine.  Your  letters  too  were  bright  rays 
of  it.  I  am  going  on  to  New  York  soon,  to  stay  a  few  weeks, 
but  my  address  will  still  be  here.  I  wrote  lately  to  Mr. 
Rossetti  quite  a  long  letter.  Dear  friend,  best  love  & 
remembrance  to  you  &  to  the  young  folk. 

1  Printed  from  copy  retained  by  Whitman. 


75 


LETTER     VIII 

ANNE    GILCHRIST   TO   WALT  WHITMAN 

50  Marquis  Rd. 
Camden  Sq.  N.  W. 

April  \2tb,  '72. 
DEAR  FRIEND: 

I  was  to  tell  you  about  my  acquaintanceship  with  Tenny 
son,  which  was  a  pleasant  episode  in  my  life  at  Haslemere. 
Hearing  of  the  extreme  beauty  of  the  scenery  thereabouts  & 
specially  of  its  comparative  wildness  &  seclusion,  he  thought 
he  would  like  to  find  or  build  a  house,  to  escape  from  the 
obtrusive  curiosity  of  the  multitudes  who  flock  to  the  Isle  of 
Wight  at  certain  seasons  of  the  year.  He  is  even  morbidly 
sensitive  on  this  point  &  will  not  stir  beyond  his  own  grounds 
from  week's  end  to  week's  end  to  avoid  his  admiring  or  inquisi 
tive  persecutors.  So,  knowing  an  old  friend  of  mine,  he 
called  on  me  for  particulars  as  to  the  resources  of  the  neigh 
bourhood.  And  I,  a  good  walker  &  familiar  with  every  least 
frequent  spot  of  hill  &  dale  for  some  miles  round,  took  him 
long  ambles  in  quest  of  a  site.  Very  pleasant  rambles 
they  were;  Tennyson,  under  the  influence  of  the  fresh,  out 
door,  quite  unconstrained  life  in  new  scenery  &  with  a  cheer 
ful  aim,  shaking  off  the  languid  ennuye  air,  as  of  a  man  to 
whom  nothing  has  any  longer  a  relish— bodily  or  mental — 
that  too  often  hangs  about  him.  And  we  found  something 
quite  to  his  mind — a  coppice  of  40  acres  hanging  on  the  south 
side  two  thirds  of  the  way  up  a  hill  some  1000  ft.  high  so  as 
to  be  sheltered  from  the  cold  &  yet  have  the  light,  dry,  elastic 

76 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

hill  air — &  with,  of  course,  a  glorious  outlook  over  the  wooded 
weald  of  Sussex  so  richly  green  &  fertile  &  looking  almost  as 
boundless  as  the  great  sweep  of  sky  over  it — the  South  Downs 
to  Surrey  Hills  &  near  at  hand  the  hill  curving  round  a  fir- 
covered  promontory,  standing  out  very  black  &  grand  be 
tween  him  &  the  sunset.  Underfoot  too  a  wilderness  of 
beauty — fox  gloves  (I  wonder  if  they  grow  in  America) 
ferns,  purple  heath  &c  &c.  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  see  much 
more  of  him  now  I  have  left  Haslemere,  though  I  have  had 
very  friendly  invitations;  for  I  am  a  home  bird — don't  like 
staying  out — wanted  at  home  and  happiest  there.  And  I 
should  not  enjoy  being  with  them  in  the  grand  mansion  half 
so  much  as  I  did  pic-nicing  in  the  road  &  watching  the  build 
ers  as  we  did.  It  is  pleasant  to  see  T —  with  children — little 
girls  at  least — he  does  not  take  to  boys  but  one  of  my  girls 
was  mostly  on  his  knee  when  they  were  in  the  room  &  he  liked 
them  very  much.  His  two  sons  are  now  both  6  ft.  high.  I 
have  received  your  letters  of  March  20  from  Brooklyn:  but 
the  one  you  speak  of  as  having  acknowledged  the  photograph 
never  came  to  hand — a  sore  disappointment  to  me,  dear 
Friend.  I  can  ill  afford  to  lose  the  long  &  eagerly  watched  for 
pleasure  of  a  letter.  If  it  seems  to  you  there  must  needs  be 
something  unreal,  illusive,  in  a  love  that  has  grown  up  entirely 
without  the  basis  of  personal  intercourse,  dear  Friend,  then 
you  do  not  yourself  realize  your  own  power  nor  understand 
the  full  meaning  of  your  own  words,  "whoso  touches  this, 
touches  a  man" — "I  have  put  my  Soul  &  Body  into  these 
Poems."  Real  effects  imply  real  causes.  Do  you  suppose 
that  an  ideal  figure  conjured  up  by  her  own  fancy  could,  in 
a  perfectly  sound,  healthy  woman  of  my  age,  so  happy  in 
her  children,  so  busy  &  content,  practical,  earnest,  produce 
such  real  &  tremendous  effect — saturating  her  whole  life,  col 
ouring  every  waking  moment — filling  her  with  such  joys,  such 
pains  that  the  strain  of  them  has  been  well  nigh  too  much 

77 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

even  for  a  strong  frame,  coming  as  it  does,  after  twenty  years 
of  hard  work? 

Therefore  please,  dear  Friend,  do  not  "warn"  me  any 
more — it  hurts  so,  as  seeming  to  distrust  my  love.  Time  only 
can  show  how  needlessly.  My  love,  flowing  ever  fresh  & 
fresh  out  of  my  heart,  will  go  with  you  in  all  your  wanderings, 
dear  Friend,  enfolding  you  day  and  night,  soul  &  body,  with 
tenderness  that  tries  so  vainly  to  utter  itself  in  these  poor, 
helpless  words,  that  clings  closer  than  any  man's  love  can 
cling.  O,  I  could  not  live  if  I  did  not  believe  that  sooner  or 
later  you  will  not  be  able  to  help  stretching  out  your  arms 
towards  me  &  saying  "Come,  my  Darling."  When  you 
get  this  will  you  post  me  an  American  newspaper  (any  one  you 
have  done  with)  as  a  token  it  has  reached  you — &  so  on  at 
intervals  during  your  wanderings;  it  will  serve  as  a  token 
that  you  are  well,  &  the  postmark  will  tell  me  where  you 
are.  And  thus  you  will  feel  free  only  to  write  when  you 
have  leisure  &  inclination — &  I  shall  be  spared  [the]  feeling  I 
have  when  I  fancy  my  letters  have  not  reached  you — as  if  I 
were  so  hopelessly,  helplessly  cut  off  from  you,  which  is  more 
than  I  can  stand.  We  all  read  American  news  eagerly  too. 
The  children  are  so  well  &  working  on  with  all  their  might. 
The  school  turns  out  more  what  I  desire  for  them  than  I 
had  ventured  to  hope.  Good-bye,  dearest  Friend. 

ANN  GILCHRIST. 


LETTER     IX 

ANNE    GILCHRIST   TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

50  Marquis  Rd. 
Camden,  Sqre. 

June  $d,  1872. 
DEAR  FRIEND: 

The  newspapers  have  both  come  to  hand  &  been  gladly 
welcomed.  I  shall  realize  you  on  the  26th  sending  living 
impulses  into  those  young  men,  with  results  not  to  cease — 
their  kindled  hearts  sending  back  response  through  glowing 
eyes  that  will  be  warmer  to  you  than  the  June  sunshine. 
Perhaps,  too,  you  will  have  pleasant  talks  with  the  eminent 
astronomers  there.  Prof.  Young,  who  is  so  skilful  a  worker 
with  that  most  subtle  of  tidings  from  the  stars,  the  spectro 
scope — always,  it  seems  hitherto  bringing  word  of  the  "  vast 
similitude  that  interlocks  all,"  nay,  of  the  absolute  identity 
of  the  stuff  they  are  made  of  with  the  stuff  we  are  made  of. 
The  news  from  Dartmouth  that  too,  is  a  great  pleasure. 

It  has  been  what  seems  to  me  a  very  long  while  since  last 
writing,  because  it  has  been  a  troubled  time  within  &  what  I 
wrote  I  tore  up  again,  believing  it  was  best,  wisest  so.  You 
said  in  your  first  letter  that  if  you  had  leisure  you  could 
write  one  that  "would  do  me  good  &  you  too";  write  that 
letter  dear  Friend  after  you  have  been  to  Dartmouth1 — for  I 
sorely  need  it.  Perhaps  the  letters  that  I  have  sent  you 
since  that  first,  have  given  you  a  feeling  of  constraint  towards 
me  because  you  cannot  respond  to  them.  I  will  not  write 

lTo  deliver  his  Dartmouth  College  ode. 

79 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

any  more  such  letters;  or,  if  I  write  them  because  my  heart 
is  so  full  it  cannot  bear  it,  they  shall  not  find  their  way  to  the 
Post.  But  do  not,  because  I  give  you  more  than  friendship, 
think  that  it  would  not  be  a  very  dear  &  happy  thing  to  me 
to  have  friendship  only  from  you.  I  do  not  want  you  to 
write  what  it  is  any  .effort  to  write — do  not  ask  for  deep 
thoughts,  deep  feelings — know  well  those  must  choose  their 
own  time  &  mode — but  for  the  simplest  current  details — 
for  any  thing  that  helps  my  eyes  to  pierce  the  distance  &  see 
you  as  you  live  &  move  to-day.  I  dearly  like  to  hear  about 
your  Mother — want  to  know  if  all  your  sisters  are  married,  & 
if  you  have  plenty  of  little  nephews  &  nieces — I  like  to  hear 
anything  about  Mr.  O'Connor1  &  Mr.  Burroughs,2  towards 
both  of  whom  I  feel  as  toward  friends.  (Has  Mr.  O'Con 
nor  succeeded  in  getting  practically  adopted  his  new  method 
of  making  cast  steel?  Percy3  being  a  worker  in  the  field  of 
metallurgy  makes  me  specially  glad  to  hear  about  this.) 
Then,  I  need  not  tell  you  how  deep  an  interest  I  feel  in 
American  politics  &  want  to  know  if  you  are  satisfied  with 
the  result  of  the  Cincinnati  Convention  &  what  of  Mr. 
Greely?4  &  what  you  augur  as  to  his  success— I  am  sure 
dear  friend,  if  you  realize  the  joy  it  is  to  me  to  receive  a  few 
words  from  you — about  anything  that  is  passing  in  your 
thoughts  &  around — how  beaming  bright  &  happy  the  day  a 
letter  comes  &  many  days  after2— how  light  hearted  &  alert  I 
set  about  my  daily  tasks,  it  would  not  seem  irksome  to  you  to 
write.  And  if  you  say,  "Read  my  books,  &  be  content — 
you  have  me  in  them,"  I  say,  it  is  because  I  read  them  so 
that  I  am  not  content.  It  is  an  effort  to  me  to  turn  to  any 
other  reading;  as  to  highest  literature  what  I  felt  three 

lWilliam  Douglas  O'Connor,  an  ardent  Washington  friend  of  Whitman. 

*John  Burroughs,  the  naturalist,  then  a  young  author  and  disciple  of  Whitman. 

*Anne  Gilchrist's  son. 

4Horace  Greeley,  nominated  by  the  Democrats  as  their  candidate  for  the  Presidency. 

80 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

years  ago  is  more  than  ever  true  now,  with  all  their  precious 
augmentations.  I  want  nothing  else — am  fully  fed  &  satis 
fied  there.  I  sit  alone  many  hours  busy  with  my  needle;  this 
used  to  be  tedious;  but  it  is  not  so  now — for  always  close  at 
hand  lie  the  books  that  are  so  dear,  so  dear,  I  brooding  over 
the  poems,  sunning  myself  in  them,  pondering  the  vistas — 
all  the  experience  of  my  past  life  &  all  its  aspirations  cor 
roborating  them — all  my  future  &  so  far  as  in  me  lies  the 
future  of  my  children  to  be  shaped  modified  vitalized  by  & 
through  these — outwardly  &  inwardly.  How  can  I  be  con 
tent  to  live  wholly  isolated  from  you?  I  am  sure  it  is  not 
possible  for  any  one, — man  or  woman,  it  does  not  matter 
which,  to  receive  these  books,  not  merely  with  the  intellect 
critically  admiring  their  power  &  beauty,  but  with  an  under 
standing  responsive  heart,  without  feeling  it  drawn  out  of 
their  breasts  so  that  they  must  leave  all  &  come  to  be  with 
you  sometimes  without  a  resistless  yearning  for  personal 
intercourse  that  will  take  no  denial.  When  we  come  to 
America  I  shall  not  want  you  to  talk  to  me,  shall  not  be  any 
way  importunate.  To  settle  down  where  there  are  some  that 
love  you  &  understand  your  poems,  somewhere  that  you 
would  be  sure  to  come  pretty  often — to  have  you  sit  with  me 
while  I  worked,  you  silent,  or  reading  to  yourself,  I  don't 
mind  how:  to  let  my  children  grow  fond  of  you — to  take 
food  with  us;  if  my  music  pleased  you,  to  let  me  play  &  sing 
to  you  of  an  evening.  Do  your  needlework  for  you — talk 
freely  of  all  that  occupied  my  thoughts  concerning  the 
children's  welfare  &c — I  could  be  very  happy  so.  But  silence 
with  the  living  presence  and  silence  with  all  the  ocean  in 
between  are  two  different  things.  Therefore,  these  years 
stretch  out  your  hand  cordially,  trustfully,  that  I  may  feel 
its  warm  grasp. 
Good-bye,  my  dearest  friend. 

ANNIE  GILCHRIST. 
Si 


LETTER     X 

ANNE    GILCHRIST   TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

50  Marquis  Rd. 
Ccunden  Sq.  London 

July  14,  '72. 

The  3d  July  was  my  rejoicing  day,  dearest  Friend, — the 
day  the  packet  from  America  reached  me,  scattering  for  a 
while  the  clouds  of  pain  and  humiliation  &  filling  me  through 
&  through  with  light  &  warmth;  indeed  I  believe  I  am  often  as 
happy  reading,  as  you  were  writing,  your  Poems.  The  long 
new  one  "As  a  Strong  Bird"  of  itself  answers  the  question 
hinted  in  your  preface  &  nobly  fulfils  the  promise  of  its  open 
ing  lines.  We  want  again  &  again  in  fresh  words  &  from  the 
new  impetus  &  standpoint  of  new  days  the  vision  that 
sweeps  ahead,  the  tones  that  fill  us  with  faith  &  joy  in  our 
present  share  of  life  &  work — prophetic  of  the  splendid 
issues.  It  does  not  need  to  be  American  born  to  believe  & 
passionately  rejoice  in  the  belief  of  what  is  preparing  in 
America.  It  is  for  humanity.  And  it  comes  through 
England.  The  noblest  souls  the  most  heroic  hearts  of 
England  were  called  to  be  the  nucleus  of  the  race  that 
(enriched  with  the  blood  &  qualities  of  other  races  &  planted 
down  in  the  new  half  of  the  world  reserved  in  all  its  fresh 
beauty  &  exhaustless  riches  to  be  the  arena)  is  to  fulfil, 
justify,  outstrip  the  vision  of  the  poets,  the  quenchless  aspi 
rations  of  all  the  ardent  souls  that  have  ever  struggled  for 
ward  upon  this  earth.  For  me,  the  most  precious  page 
in  the  book  is  that  which  contains  the  Democratic  Souvenirs. 

82 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

I  respond  to  that  as  one  to  whom  it  means  the  life  of  her 
Soul.  It  comforts  me  very  much.  You  speak  in  the  Pref 
ace  of  the  imperious  &  resistless  command  from  within  out 
of  which  "Leaves  of  Grass"  issued.  This  carried  with  it  no 
doubt  the  secret  of  a  corresponding  resistless  power  over  the 
reader  wholly  unprecedented,  unapproached  in  literature, 
as  I  believe,  &  to  be  compared  only  with  that  of  Christ. 
I  speak  out  of  my  own  experience  when  I  say  that  no  myth,  no 
"miracle"  embodying  the  notion  of  a  direct  communication 
between  God  &  a  human  creature,  goes  beyond  the  effect, 
soul  &  body,  of  those  Poems  on  me:  &  that  were  I  to  put 
into  Oriental  forms  of  speech  what  I  experienced  it  would 
read  like  one  of  those  old  "miracles"  or  myths.  Thus  of 
many  things  that  used  to  appear  to  me  incomprehensible 
lies,  I  now  perceive  the  germ  of  truth  &  understand  that 
what  was  called  the  supernatural  was  merely  an  inadequate 
&  too  timid  way  of  conceiving  the  natural.  Had  I  died  the 
following  year,  it  would  have  been  the  simple  truth  to  say  I 
died  of  joy.  The  doctor  called  it  nervous  exhaustion  falling 
with  tremendous  violence  on  the  heart  which  "seemed  to 
have  been  strained":  &  was  much  puzzled  how  that  could 
have  come  to  pass.  I  left  him  in  his  puzzle — but  it  was 
none  to  me.  How  could  such  a  dazzling  radiance  of  light 
flooding  the  soul,  suddenly,  kindling  it  to  such  intense  life, 
but  put  a  tremendous  strain  on  the  vital  organs?  how  could 
the  muscles  of  the  heart  suddenly  grow  adequate  to  such  new 
work?  O  the  passionate  tender  gratitude  that  flooded  my 
breast,  the  yearnings  that  seemed  to  strain  the  heart  beyond 
endurance  that  I  might  repay  with  all  my  life  &  soul  &  body 
this  debt — that  I  might  give  joy  to  him  who  filled  me  with 
such  joy,  that  I  might  make  his  outward  life  sweeter  & 
more  beautiful  who  made  my  inner  life  so  divinely  sweet 
&  beautiful.  But,  dear  friend,  I  have  certainly  to  see  that 
this  is  not  to  be  so,  now:  that  for  me  too  love  &  death 

8} 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

are  folded  inseparably  together:  Death  that  will  renew  my 
youth. 

I  have  had  the  paper  from  Burlington1 — with  the  details 
a  woman  likes  so  to  have.  I  wish  I  had  known  for  certain 
whether  you  went  on  to  Boston  &  were  enjoying  the  music 
there.  My  youngest  boy  has  gone  to  spend  his  holiday  with 
his  brother  in  South  Wales  &  he  writes  me  such  good  news  of 
Per.,  that  he  is  "looking  as  brown  as  a  nut  &  very  jolly"; 
his  home  in  a  "clean  airy  old  farm  house  half  way  up  a 
mountain  in  the  midst  of  wild  rough  grand  scenery,  sea  in 
sight  near  enough  to  hear  the  sound  of  it  about  as  loud  as  the 
rustling  of  leaves" — so  the  boys  will  have  a  good  time  to 
gether,  and  the  girls  are  going  with  me  for  the  holiday  to 
their  grandmother  at  Colne.  W.  Rossetti  does  not  take  his 
till  October  this  year.  I  suppose  it  will  be  long  &  long  before 
this  letter  reaches  you  as  you  will  be  gone  to  California — may 
it  be  a  time  full  of  enjoyment — full  to  the  brim. 

Good-bye,  dearest  Friend, 

ANNIE  GILCHRIST. 

What  a  noble  achievement  is  Mr.  Stanley's:1  it  fills  me  with 
pleasure  that  Americans  should  thus  have  been  the  rescuer  of 
our  large-hearted,  heroic  traveller.  We  have  just  got  his 
letters  with  account  of  the  five  races  in  Central  Africa  copied 
from  N.  Y.  Herald,  July  29. 

1  Burlington,  Vermont,  where  Whitman's  sister,  Mrs.  Heyde,  lived. 
1  Henry  M.  Stanley,  African  Explorer. 


84 


LETTER       XI 

ANNE   GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 

50  Marquis  Road 
Camden  Sqre. 
Novr.    12,  1872. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

I  must  write  not  because  I  have  anything  to  tell  you — but 
because  I  want  so,  by  help  of  a  few  loving  words,  to  come  into 
your  presence  as  it  were — into  your  remembrance.  Not  more 
do  the  things  that  grow  want  the  sun. 

I  have  received  all  the  papers — &  each  has  made  a  day 
very  bright  for  me. 

I  hope  the  trip  to  California  has  not  again  had  to  be 
postponed — I  realize  well  the  enjoyment  of  it,  &  what  it 
would  be  to  California  &  the  fresh  impulses  of  thought  & 
emotion  that  would  shape  themselves,  melodiously,  out  of 
that  for  the  new  volume. 

My  children  are  all  well.  Beatrice  is  working  hard  to  get 
through  the  requisite  amount  of  Latin,  &c.  that  is  required 
in  the  preliminary  examination — before  entering  on  medical 
studies.  Percy,  my  eldest,  whom  I  have  not  seen  for  a  year, 
is  coming  to  spend  Xmas  with  us. 

Good-bye,  dearest  Friend. 

ANNIE  GILCHRIST. 


LETTER     XII 

ANNE    GILCHRIST   TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

50  Marquis  Road 
Camden  Sq.  London 

Jan.  31,  '73. 
DEAREST  FRIEND: 

Shall  you  never  find  it  in  your  heart  to  say  a  kind  word  to 
me  again?  or  a  word  of  some  sort?  Surely  I  must  have 
written  what  displeased  you  very  much  that  you  should  turn 
away  from  me  as  the  tone  of  your  last  letter  &  the  ten 
months'  silence  which  have  followed  seem  to  express  tome 
with  such  emphasis.  But  if  so,  tell  me  of  it,  tell  me  how — 
with  perfect  candour,  I  am  worthy  of  that — a  willing  learner 
&  striver;  not  afraid  of  the  pain  of  looking  my  own  faults  & 
shortcomings  steadily  in  the  face.  It  may  be  my  words  have 
led  you  to  do  me  some  kind  of  injustice  in  thought — I  then 
could  defend  myself.  But  if  it  is  simply  that  you  are  pre 
occupied,  too  busy,  perhaps  very  eagerly  beset  by  hundreds 
like  myself  whose  hearts  are  so  drawn  out  of  their  breasts  by 
your  Poems  that  they  cannot  rest  without  striving,  some 
way  or  other,  to  draw  near  to  you  personally — then  write 
once  more  &  tell  me  so  &  I  will  learn  to  be  content.  But 
please  let  it  be  a  letter  just  like  the  first  three  you  wrote:  & 
do  not  fear  that  I  shall  take  it  to  mean  anything  it  doesn't 
mean.  I  shall  never  do  that  again,  though  it  was  natural 
enough  at  first,  with  the  deep  unquestioning  belief  I  had  that 
I  did  but  answer  a  call;  that  I  not  only  might  but  ought,  on 
pain  of  being  untrue  to  the  greatest,  sweetest  instincts  & 

86 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

aspirations  of  my  own  soul,  to  answer  it  with  all  my  heart  & 
strength  &  life.  I  say  to  myself,  I  say  to  you  as  I  did  in  my 
first  letters,  "This  voice  that  has  come  to  me  from  over  the 
Atlantic  is  the  one  divine  voice  that  has  penetrated  to  my 
soul:  is  the  utterance  of  a  nature  that  sends  out  life-giving 
warmth  &  light  to  my  inward  self  as  actually  as  the  Sun  does 
to  my  body,  &  draws  me  to  it  and  shapes  &  shall  shape  my 
course  just  as  the  sun  shapes  the  earth's. "  "  Interlocked  in  a 
vast  similitude"  indeed  are  these  inner  &  outer  truths  of  our 
lives.  It  may  be  that  this  shaping  of  my  life  course  toward 
you  will  have  to  be  all  inward — that  to  feed  upon  your  words 
till  they  pass  into  the  very  substance  &  action  of  my  soul  is 
all  that  will  be  given  to  me  &  the  grateful,  yearning,  tender 
love  growing  ever  deeper  &  stronger  out  of  that  will  have  to  go 
dumb  &  actionless  all  my  days  here.  But  I  can  wait  long, 
wait  patiently;  know  well,  realize  more  clearly  indeed  that 
this  wingless,  clouded,  half-developed  soul  of  me  has  a  long, 
long  novitiate  to  live  through  before  it  can  meet  &  answer 
yours  on  equal  terms  so  as  fully  to  satisfy  you,  to  be  in  very 
truth  &  deed  a  dear  Friend,  a  chosen  companion,  a  source  of 
joy  to  you  as  you  of  light  &  life  to  me.  But  that  is  what  I 
will  live  &  die  hoping  &  striving  for.  That  covers  &  includes 
all  the  aspirations  all  the  high  hopes  I  am  capable  of.  And 
were  I  to  fall  away  from  this  belief  it  would  be  a  fall  into  utter 
blackness  &  despair,  as  one  for  whom  the  Sun  in  Heaven  is 
blotted  out. 
Good-bye,  dearest  Friend. 

ANNIE  GILCHRIST. 


LETTER     XIII 

ANNE   GILCHRIST    TO  WALT    WHITMAN 

50  Marquis  Road 
Camden  Sq.  N.  W. 

May  20  th,  '73. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

Such  a  joyful  surprise  was  that  last  paper  you  sent  me 
with  the  Poem  celebrating  the  great  events  in  Spain — the 
new  hopes  the  new  life  wakening  in  the  breasts  of  that  fine 
People  which  has  slumbered  so  long,  weighed  down  &  tor 
mented  with  hideous  nightmares  of  superstition.  Are  you 
indeed  getting  strong  &  well  again?  able  to  drink  in  draughts 
of  pleasure  from  the  sights  &  sounds  &  perfumes  of  this 
delicious  time,  "  lilac  time" — according  to  your  wont? 
Sleeping  well — eating  well,  dear  friend? 

William  Rossetti  is  coming  to  see  me  Thursday,  before 
starting  for  his  holiday  trip  to  Naples.  His  father  was  a 
Neapolitan,  so  he  narrowly  escaped  a  lifelong  dungeon  for 
having  written  some  patriotic  songs — he  fled  in  disguise  by 
help  of  English  friends  &  spent  the  rest  of  his  life  here.  So 
this,  his  first  visit  to  Naples,  will  be  specially  full  of  interest  & 
delight  to  our  friend.  He  is  also  in  great  spirits  at  having 
discovered  a  large  number  of  hitherto  unknown  early  letters 
of  Shelley's.  Of  modern  English  Poets  Shelley  is  the  one  he 
loves  &  admires  incomparably  the  most.  Perhaps  this  letter 
will  just  reach  you  on  your  birthday.  What  can  I  send  you? 
What  can  I  tell  you  but  the  same  old  story  of  a  heart  fast 

88 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

anchored — of  a  soul  to  whom  your  soul  is  as  the  sun  &  the 
fresh,  sweet  air,  and  the  nourishing,  sustaining  earth  wherein 
the  other  one  breathes  free  &  feeds  &  expands  &  delights  it 
self.  There  is  no  occupation  of  the  day  however  homely 
that  is  not  coloured,  elevated,  made  more  cheerful  to  me  by 
thoughts  of  you  &  by  thoughts  you  have  given  me  blent  in  & 
suffusing  all :  No  hope  or  aim  or  practical  endeavour  for  my 
dear  children  that  has  not  taken  a  higher,  larger,  more  joyous 
scope  through  you.  No  immortal  aspiration,  no  thoughts  of 
what  lies  beyond  death,  but  centre  in  you.  And  in  moods  of 
pain  and  discouragement,  dear  Friend,  I  turn  to  that  Poem 
beginning  "  Whoever  you  are  holding  me  now  in  hand/ '  and 
I  don't  know  but  that  that  one  revives  and  strengthens  me 
more  than  any.  For  there  is  not  a  line  nor  a  word  in  it  at 
which  my  spirit  does  not  rise  up  instinctively  and  fearlessly 
say — "So  be  it."  And  then  I  read  other  poems  &  drink  in 
the  draught  that  I  know  is  for  me,  because  it  is  for  all — the 
love  that  you  give  me  on  the  broad  ground  of  my  humanity 
and  womanhood.  And  I  understand  the  reality  &  precious- 
ness  of  that.  Then  I  say  to  myself,  "Souls  are  not  made  to 
be  frustrated — to  have  their  greatest  &  best  &  sweetest 
impulses  and  aspirations  &  yearnings  made  abortive.  There 
fore  we  shall  not  be  'carried  diverse'  forever.  This  dumb 
soul  of  mine  will  not  always  remain  hidden  from  you — but 
some  way  will  be  given  me  for  this  love,  this  passion  of  grati 
tude,  this  set  of  all  the  nerves  of  my  being  toward  you,  to 
bring  joy  &  comfort  to  you.  I  do  not  ask  the  When  or  the 
How." 

I  shall  be  thinking  of  your  great  &  dear  Mother  in  her 
beautiful  old  age,  too,  on  your  birthday — happiest  woman  in 
all  the  world  that  she  was  &  is:  forever  sacred  &  dear  to 
America  &  to  all  who  feed  on  the  Poems  of  her  Son. 

Good-bye,  my  best  beloved  Friend. 

ANNIE  GILCHRIST. 

89 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

I  suppose  you  see  all  that  you  care  to  see  in  the  way  of 
English  newspapers.  I  often  long  to  send  you  one  when 
there  is  anything  in  that  I  feel  sure  would  interest  you,  but 
am  withheld  by  fearing  it  would  be  quite  superfluous  or 
troublesome  even. 


90 


LETTER     XIV 

ANNE    GIL  CHRIST   TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

Earls  Colne 

Hahtead 
August  12,  1873. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

The  paper  has  just  been  forwarded  here  which  tells  me  you 
are  still  suffering  and  not,  as  I  was  fondly  believing,  already 
quite  emerged  from  the  cloud  of  sickness.  My  Darling,  let 
me  use  that  tender  caressing  word  once  more — for  how  can  I 
help  it,  with  heart  so  full  &  no  outlet  but  words?  My  dar 
ling — I  say  it  over  &  over  to  myself  with  voice,  with  eyes 
so  full  of  love,  of  tender  yearning,  sorrowful,  longing  love. 
I  would  give  all  the  world  if  I  might  come  (but  am  held  here 
yet  awhile  by  a  duty  nothing  may  supersede)  &  soothe  &  tend 
&  wait  on  you  &  with  such  cheerful  loving  companionship 
lift  off  some  of  the  weight  of  the  long  hours  &  days  &  perhaps 
months  that  must  still  go  over  while  nature  slowly,  imper 
ceptibly,  but  still  so  surely  repairs  the  mischief  within:  result 
of  the  tremendous  ordeal  to  your  frame  of  those  great  over 
brimming  years  of  life  spent  in  the  Army  Hospitals.  You 
see  dear  Friend,  a  woman  who  is  a  mother  has  thenceforth 
something  of  that  feeling  toward  other  men  who  are  dear  to 
her.  A  cherishing,  fostering  instinct  that  rejoices  so  in 
tending,  nursing,  caretaking  &  I  should  be  so  happy  it  needs 
must  diffuse  a  reviving,  comforting,  vivifying  warmth  around 
you.  Might  but  these  words  breathed  out  of  the  heart  of  a 
woman  who  loves  you  with  her  whole  soul  &  life  &  strength 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

fulfil  their  errand  &  comfort  the  sorrowful  heart,  if  ever  so 
little — &  through  that  revive  the  drooping  frame.  This 
love  that  has  grown  up,  far  away  over  here,  unhelped  by  the 
sweet  influences  of  personal  intercourse,  penetrating  the 
whole  substance  of  a  woman's  life,  swallowing  up  into  itself 
all  her  aspirations,  hopes,  longings,  regardless  of  Death, 
looking  earnestly,  confidently  beyond  that  for  its  fruition, 
blending  more  or  less  with  every  thought  &  act  of  her  life — 
a  guiding  star  that  her  feet  cannot  choose  but  follow  reso 
lutely — what  can  be  more  real  than  this,  dear  Friend? 
What  can  have  deeper  roots,  or  a  more  immortal  growing 
power?  But  I  do  not  ask  any  longer  whether  this  love  is 
believed  in  &  welcomed  &  precious  to  you.  For  I  know  that 
what  has  real  roots  cannot  fail  to  bear  real  flowers  &  fruits 
that  will  in  the  end  be  sweet  &  joyful  to  you;  and  that  if  I  am 
indeed  capable  of  being  your  eternal  comrade,  climbing 
whereon  you  climb,  daring  all  that  you  dare,  learning  all 
that  you  learn,  suffering  all  that  you  suffer  (pressing  closest 
then)  loving,  enjoying  all  that  you  love  &  enjoy — you  will 
want  me.  You  will  not  be  able  to  help  stretching  out  your 
hand  &  drawing  me  to  you.  I  have  written  this  mostly  out 
in  the  fields,  as  I  am  so  fond  of  doing — the  serene,  beautiful 
harvest  landscape  spread  around — returned  once  more  as  I 
have  every  summer  for  five  &  twenty  years  to  this  old  village 
where  my  mother's  family  have  lived  in  unbroken  succession 
three  hundred  years,  ever  since,  in  fact,  the  old  Priory  which 
they  have  inhabited,  ceased  to  be  a  Priory.  My  Mother's 
health  is  still  good — wonderful  indeed  for  88,  though  she  has 
been  30  years  crippled  with  rheumatism.  Still  she  enjoys 
getting  out  in  the  sunshine  in  her  Bath  chair,  &  is  able  to 
take  pleasure  in  seeing  her  friends  &  in  having  us  all  with  her. 
Her  father  was  a  hale  man  at  90.  These  eastern  counties 
are  flat  &  tame,  but  yet  under  this  soft,  smiling,  summer  sky 
lovely  enough  too — with  their  rich  green  meadows  &  abun- 

92 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

dant  golden  corn  crops,  now  being  well  got  in.  Even  the 
sluggish  little  river  Colne  one  cannot  find  fault  with,  it 
nourishes  such  a  luxuriant  border  of  wild  flowers  as  it  creeps 
along — &  turns  &  twists  from  sunshine  into  shade  &  from 
shade  into  sunshine  so  as  to  make  the  very  best  &  most  of 
itself.  But  as  to  the  human  growth  here,  I  think  that  more 
than  anywhere  else  in  England  perhaps  it  struggled  along 
choked  &  poisoned  by  dead  things  of  the  past,  still  holding 
their  place  above  ground.  Carlyle  calls  the  clergy  "black 
dragoons" — in  these  rural  parishes  they  are  black  Squires, 
making  it  their  chief  business  to  instruct  the  labourer  that 
his  grinding  poverty  &  excessive  toil,  &  the  Squire's  affluence 
&  ease  are  equally  part  of  the  sacred  order  of  Providence. 
When  I  have  been  here  a  little  I  wish  myself  in  London  again, 
dearly  as  I  love  outdoor  life  &  companionship  with  nature. 
For  though  the  same  terrible  &  cruel  facts  are  there  as  here, 
they  are  not  choked  down  your  throat  by  any  one,  as  a  beau 
tiful  &  perfect  ideal.  Even  in  England  light  is  unmistakably 
breaking  through  the  darkness  for  the  toilers. 

I  did  not  see  William  Rossetti  before  I  came  down,  but 
heard  he  had  had  a  very  happy  time  in  Italy  &  splendid 
weather  all  the  while.  Mr.  Conway  &  his  wife  are  going 
to  spend  their  holiday  in  Brittany.  Do  not  think  me 
childish  dear  friend  if  I  send  a  copy  of  this  letter  to  Washing 
ton  as  well  as  to  Camden.  I  want  it  so  to  get  to  you — long 
&  so  long  to  speak  with  you — &  the  Camden  one  may  never 
come  to  hand — or  the  Washington  one  might  remain  months 
unforwarded — it  is  easy  to  tear  up. 

1  hope  it  will  find  you  by  the  sea  shore! — getting  on  so 
fast  toward  health  &  strength  again — refreshed  &  tranquil 
lized,  soul  &  body.  Good-bye,  beloved  Friend. 

ANNIE  GILCHRIST. 


93 


LETTER     XV1 

WALT  WHITMAN  TO    ANNEGILCHRIST 

I  must  write 
friend  once  more  at 

Since  I  last  wrote,  clouds  have  darkened  over  me,  and  still 
remain. 

On  the  night  of  3d  January  last  I  was  paralyzed,  left 
side,  and  have  remained  so  since.  Feb.  19  I  lost  a  dear  dear 
sister,  who  died  in  St.  Louis  leaving  two  young  daughters. 
May  23d,  my  dear  inexpressibly  beloved  mother  died  in 
Camden,  N.  J.  I  was  just  able  to  get  from  Washington  to 
her  dying  bed  &  sit  there.  I  thought  I  was  bearing  it  all 
stoutly,  but  1  find  it  affecting  the  progress  of  my  recovery 
since  and  now.  I  am  still  feeble,  palsied  &  have  spells  of 
great  distress  in  the  head.  But  there  are  points  more 
favourable. 

1  am  up  &  dressed  every  day,  sleep  &  eat  middling  well  & 
do  not  change  much  yet,  in  flesh  &  face,  only  look  very  old. 

Though  I  can  move  slowly  very  short  distances,  I  walk 
with  difficulty  £  have  to  stay  in  the  house  nearly  all  the 
time.  As  I  write  to-day,  I  feel  that  I  shall  probably  get 
well — though  I  may  not. 

Many  times  during  the  past  year  have  I  thought  of  you  & 
your  children.  Many  times  indeed  have  I  been  going  to 
write,  but  did  not.  I  have  just  been  reading  over  again 
several  of  this  &  last  year's  letters  from  you  &  looking  at 


2Undated.     Made  up  from  copy  among!  Whitman's  papers.    This  letter  evidently  belongs 
to  the  summer  of  1873. 

94 


FACSIMILE  OF  A  TYPICAL  WHITMAN  LETTER. 
FROM  THOMAS  B.  HARNED'S  COLLECTION 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

the  pictures  sent  in  the  one  of  Jan.  24,  '72.  (Your  letters  of 
Jan.  24,  June  3  &  July  14,  of  last  year  and  of  Jan.  3 1 ,  and  May 
20,  this  year,  with  certainly  one  other,  maybe  two)  all  came 
safe.  Do  not  think  hard  of  me  for  not  writing  in  reply. 
If  you  could  look  into  my  spirit  &  emotion  you  would  be 
entirely  satisfied  &  at  peace.  I  am  at  present  temporarily 
here  at  Camden,  on  the  Delaware  river,  opposite  Philadel 
phia,  at  the  house  of  my  brother,  and  I  am  occupying,  as  I 
write,  the  rooms  wherein  my  mother  died.  You  must  not 
be  unhappy  about  me,  as  I  am  as  comfortably  situated 
as  can  be — &  many  things — indeed  every  thing — in  my  case 
might  be  so  much  worse.  Though  my  plans  are  not  definite, 
my  intention  as  far  as  anything  is  on  getting  stronger,  and 
after  the  hot  season  passes,  to  get  back  to  Washington  for 
the  fall  &  winter. 

My  post  office  address  continues  at  Washington.  I  send 
my  love  to  Percy  &  all  your  dear  children. 

The  enclosed  ring  I  have  just  taken  from  my  finger,  &  send 
to  you,  with  my  love. 


95 


LETTER     XVI 

ANNE    GILCHRIST   TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

Earls  Colne 

Sept.  4,  1873. 

I  am  entirely  satisfied  &  at  peace,  my  Beloved — no  words 
can  say  how  divine  a  peace. 

Pain  and  joy  struggle  together  in  me  (but  joy  getting  the 
mastery,  because  its  portion  is  eternal) .  O  the  precious  letter, 
bearing  to  me  the  living  touch  of  your  hand,  vibrating 
through  &  through  me  as  I  feel  the  pressure  of  the  ring  that 
pressed  your  flesh — &  now  will  press  mine  so  long  as  I  draw 
breath.  My  Darling!  take  comfort  &  strength  &  joy  from 
me  that  you  have  made  so  rich  &  strong.  Perhaps  it  will  yet 
be  given  us  to  see  each  other,  to  travel  the  last  stage  of  this 
journey  side  by  side,  hand  in  hand — so  completing  the 
preparation  for  the  fresh  start  on  the  greater  journey;  me 
loving  and  blessing  her  you  mourn,  now  for  your  dear  sake — 
then  growing  to  know  &  love  her  in  full  unison  with  you. 

I  hope  you  will  soon  get  to  the  sea — as  soon  as  you  are 
strong  enough,  that  is — &  if  you  could  have  all  needful  care  & 
comfort  &  a  dear  friend  with  you  there.  For  I  believe  you 
would  get  on  faster  away  from  Camden — &  that  it  tends  so  to 
keep  the  wound  open  &  quivering  to  be  where  the  blow  fell 
on  you — where  every  object  speaks  of  her  last  hours  &  is 
laden  with  heart-stirring  associations;  though  I  realize, 
dearest  Friend,  that  in  the  midst  of  the  poignant  sorrow  come 
immortal  sweet  moments — communings,  rapt  anticipations. 
But  these  would  come  the  same  in  nature's  great  soothing 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

arms  by  the  seashore,  with  her  reviving,  invigorating  breath 
playing  freely  over  you.  If  only  you  could  get  just  strong 
enough  prudently  to  undertake  the  journey.  When  my 
eyes  first  open  in  the  morning,  often  such  tender  thoughts, 
yearning  ineffably,  pitying,  sorrowful,  sweet  thoughts  flow  into 
my  breast  that  longs  &  longs  to  pillow  on  itself  the  suffering 
head  (with  white  hair  more  beautiful  to  me  than  the  silvery 
clouds  which  always  make  me  think  of  it.)  My  hands  want 
to  be  so  helpful,  tending,  soothing,  serving  my  whole  frame 
to  support  his  stricken  side — O  to  comfort  his  heart — to 
diffuse  round  him  such  warm  sunshine  of  love,  helping  time 
&  the  inborn  vigour  of  each  organ  that  the  disease  could  not 
withstand  the  influences,  but  healthful  life  begin  to  flow 
again  through  every  part.  My  children  send  their  love, 
their  earnest  sympathy.  Do  not  feel  anyways  called  on  to 
write  except  when  inwardly  impelled.  Your  silence  is 
not  dumb  to  me  now — will  never  again  cloud  or  pain,  or  be 
misconstrued  by  me.  I  can  feast  &  feast,  &  still  have 
wherewhithal  to  satisfy  myself  with  the  sweet  &  precious 
words  that  have  now  come  &  with  the  feel  of  my  ring,  only 
send  any  old  paper  that  comes  to  hand  (never  mind  whether 
there  is  anything  to  read  in  it  or  not)  just  as  a  sign  that  the 
breath  of  love  &  hope  these  poor  words  try  to  bear  to  you, 
has  reached  you.  And  just  one  word  literally  that,  dearest, 
when  you  begin  to  feel  you  are  really  getting  on — to  make 
me  so  joyful  with  the  news. 
Good-bye,  dearest  Friend, 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 

Back  again  in  Marquis  Road. 


97 


LETTER     XVII 

ANNE    GILCHRIST   TO    WALT    WHITMAN 

50  Marquis  Rd. 

Camden  Sq. 
Nov.  3/73  London 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

All  the  papers  have  reached  me — 3  separate  packets  (with 
the  handwriting  on  them  that  makes  my  heart  give  a  glad 
bound).  I  look  through  them  full  of  interest  &  curiosity, 
wanting  to  realize  as  I  do,  in  things  small  as  well  as  things 
large,  my  Land  of  Promise — the  land  where  I  hope  to  plant 
down  my  children — so  strong  in  the  faith  that  they,  &  per 
haps  still  more  those  that  come  after  them  will  bless  me  for 
that  (consciously  or  unconsciously,  it  doesn't  matter  which) 
I  should  set  out  with  a  cheerful  heart  on  that  errand  if  I 
knew  the  first  breath  I  drew  on  American  soil  would  be  my 
last  in  life.  I  searched  hopeful  for  a  few  words  telling  of 
improvement  in  your  health  in  the  last  paper.  But  perhaps 
it  does  not  follow  from  there  being  no  much  mention  that 
there  is  no  progress.  May  you  be  steadily  though  ever  so 
slowly  gaining  ground,  my  Darling!  Now  that  I  understand 
the  nature  of  the  malady  (a  deficient  flow  of  blood  to  the  brain, 
if  it  has  been  rightly  explained  to  me)  I  realize  that  recovery 
must  be  very  gradual:  as  the  coming  on  of  it  must  have  been 
slow  &  insidious.  And  perhaps  that,  &  also  even  from  before 
the  war  time  with  its  tremendous  strain,  emotional  &  phys 
ical,  is  part  of  the  price  paid  for  the  greatness  of  the  Poems 
&  for  their  immortal  destiny — the  rapt  exaltation  the  in 
tensity  of  joy  &  sorrow  &  struggle — all  that  went  to  give 

98 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

them  their  life-giving  power.  For  I  have  felt  many  times  in 
reading  them  as  if  the  light  and  heat  of  their  sacred  fire  must 
needs  have  consumed  the  vital  energies  of  him  in  whose 
breast  it  was  generated,  faster  then  even  the  most  splendid 
physique  could  renew  itself.  For  our  sakes,  for  humanity's 
sake,  you  suffer  now,  I  do  not  doubt  it,  every  bit  as  much 
as  the  soldier's  wounds  are  for  his  country's  sake.  The 
more  precious,  the  more  tenderly,  cherished,  the  more  draw 
ing  the  hearts  that  understand  with  ineffable  yearnings,  for 
this. 

My  children  all  continue  well  in  the  main,  I  am  thankful 
to  say,  though  Beatrice  (the  eldest  girl)  looks  paler  than  I 
could  wish  and  is  working  her  brains  too  much  and  the  rest 
of  her  too  little  just  at  present,  with  the  hope  of  getting 
through  the  Apothecaries  Hall  exam,  in  Arts  next  Sept., 
which  involves  a  good  bit  of  Latin  and  mathematics.  This 
is  all  women  can  do  in  England  toward  getting  into  the  medi 
cal  profession  &  as  the  Apoth.  Hall  certificate  is  accepted 
for  the  preliminary  studies  at  Paris  &  Zurich,  I  make  no 
doubt  it  is  also  at  Philadelphia  &  New  York;  so  that  she  would 
be  able  to  enter  on  medical  studies,  the  virtual  preliminary 
work,  when  we  come.  For  she  continues  steadfastly  desirous 
to  win  her  way  into  that  field  of  usefulness,  &  I  believe  is 
well  fitted  to  work  there,  with  her  grave,  earnest,  thoughtful, 
feeling  nature  &  strong  bodily  frame.  She  is  able  to  enjoy 
your  Poems  &  the  vistas;  broods  over  them  a  great  deal. 
Percy  is  bending  his  energies  now  to  mastering  the  processes 
that  go  to  the  production  of  the  very  best  quality  of  copper 
such  as  is  used  for  telegraph  wires  &c.  No  easy  matter,  cop 
per  being  the  most  difficult,  in  a  metallurgical  point  of  view, 
of  all  the  metals  to  deal  with  &  the  Company  in  whose  employ 
he  is  having  hitherto  been  unsuccessful  in  this  branch.  His 
looks,  too,  do  not  quite  satisfy  me — it  is  partly  rather  too 
long  hours  of  work — but  still  more  not  getting  a  good  meal 

99 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

till  the  end  of  it.  It  is  so  hard  to  make  the  young  believe 
that  the  stomach  shares  the  fatigue  of  the  rest  of  the  body 
and  that  there  is  not  nervous  energy  enough  left  for  it  to  do 
all  its  principal  work  to  perfection  after  a  long,  exhausting 
day.  But  I  hope  now  I,  or  rather  his  own  experience  and  I 
together,  have  convinced  him  in  time,  and  he  promises  me 
faithfully  to  arrange  for  a  good  meal  in  the  middle  of  the  day 
however  much  grudging  the  time.  My  little  artist  Herby 
is  still  chiefly  working  from  the  antique,  but  tries  his  hand  at 
home  occasionally  with  oils  &  to  life  &  has  made  an  oil 
sketch  of  me  which,  though  imperfect  in  drawing  &c.,  gives 
far  more  the  real  character  &  expression  of  my  face  than  the 
photographs.  Have  you  heard,  I  wonder,  of  William  Ros- 
setti's  approaching  marriage?  It  is  to  take  place  early  in 
the  New  Year.  The  lady  is  Lucy  Brown,  daughter  of  one 
of  our  most  eminent  artists  (he  was  the  friend  who  first  put 
into  my  hand  the  "Selections"  from  your  Poems).  Lucy 
is  a  very  sweet-tempered,  cultivated,  lovable  woman,  well 
fitted,  I  should  say,  to  make  William  Rossetti  happy.  They 
are  to  continue  in  the  old  home,  Euston  Sq.,  with  Mrs.  Ros 
setti  &  the  sisters,  who  are  one  and  all  fond  of  Lucy.  I  am 
glad  he  is  going  to  be  married  for  I  think  he  is  a  man  capable 
both  of  giving  and  receiving  a  large  measure  of  domestic  hap 
piness.  I  hope  the  dear  little  girls  at  St.  Louis  are  well. 
And  you,  my  Darling,  O  surely  the  sun  is  piercing  through  the 
dark  clouds  once  more  and  strength  &  health  and  gladness 
returning.  O  fill  yourself  with  happy  thoughts  for  you  have 
filled  others  with  joy  &  strength  &  will  do  so  for  count 
less  generations,  &  from  these  hearts  flows  back,  and  will 
ever  flow,  a  steady  current  of  love  &  the  beautiful  fruits  of 
love. 

When  you  next  send  me  a  paper,  if  you  feel  that  you  are 
getting  on  ever  so  little,  dearest  friend,  just  a  dash  under  the 
word  London.  I  have  looked  back  at  all  your  old  addresses 

100 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

&  I  see  you  never  do  put  any  lines,  so  I  shall  know  it  was  not 
done  absently  but  really  means  you  are  better.    And  how 
that  line  will  gladden  my  eyes,  Darling! 
Love  from  us  all .    Good-bye. 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 


101 


LETTER     XVIII 

ANNE    GILCHRIST   TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

50    Marquis  Rd. 
Camden  Sq.,  N.  W, 

Dec.  8,  1873. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

The  papers  with  Prof.  Young's  speech  came  safely  &  I 
read  it,  my  hand  in  yours,  happy  and  full  of  interest.  Are 
you  getting  on,  my  Darling?  When  I  know  that  you  no 
longer  suffer  from  distressing  sensations  in  the  head  &  can 
move  without  such  effort  and  difficulty,  a  hymn  of  thank 
fulness  will  go  up  from  my  heart.  Perhaps  this  week  I  shall 
get  the  paper  with  the  line  on  it  that  is  to  tell  me  so  much— 
or  at  least  that  you  are  well  on  your  way  towards  it.  And 
what  shall  I  tell  you  about?  The  quiet  tenor  of  our  daily 
lives  here?  but  that  is  very  restricted,  though,  I  trust,  as  far 
as  it  goes,  good  &  healthful.  O  the  thoughts  and  hopes  that 
leap  from  across  the  ocean  &  the  years!  But  they  hide 
themselves  away  when  I  want  to  put  them  into  words.  Do 
not  think  I  live  in  dreams.  I  know  very  well  it  is  strictly  in 
proportion  as  the  present  &  the  past  have  been  busy  shaping 
&  preparing  the  materials  of  a  beautiful  future,  that  it  really 
will  be  beautiful  when  it  comes  to  exist  as  a  present,  seeing 
how  it  needs  must  be  entirely  a  growth  from  all  that  has 
preceded  it  &  that  there  are  no  sudden  creations  of  flowers  of 
happiness  in  men  &  women  any  more  than  in  the  fields. 
But  if  the  buds  lie  ready  folded,  ah,  what  the  sunshine  will 
do!  What  fills  me  with  such  deep  joy  in  your  poems  is  the 

102 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

sense  of  the  large  complete  acceptiveness — the  full  &  perfect 
faith  in  humanity — in  every  individual  unit  of  humanity — 
thus  for  the  first  time  uttered.  That  alone  satisfies  the 
sense  of  justice  in  the  soul,  responds  to  what  its  own  nature 
compels  it  to  believe  of  the  Infinite  Source  of  all.  That  too 
includes  within  its  scope  the  lot  as  well  as  the  man.  His 
infinite,  undying  self  must  achieve  and  fulfil  itself  out  of 
any  &  all  experiences.  Why,  if  it  takes  such  ages  &  such 
vicissitudes  to  compact  a  bit  of  rock — fierce  heat,  &  icy  cold, 
storms,  deluges,  crushing  pressure  &  slow  subsidences,  as  if 
it  were  like  a  handful  of  grass  &  all  sunshine — what  would  it 
do  for  a  man! 

Dec.   1 8. 

The  longed-for  paper  has  come  to  hand.  O  it  is  a  slow 
struggle  back  to  health,  my  Darling!  I  believe  in  the  main 
it  is  good  news  that  is  come — and  there  is  the  little  stroke  I 
wanted  so  on  the  address.  But  for  all  that,  I  feel  troubled 
&  conscious — for  I  believe  you  have  been  a  great  deal  worse 
since  you  wrote — and  that  you  have  still  such  a  steep,  steep 
hill  to  climb. 

Perhaps  if  my  hand  were  in  yours,  dear  Walt,  you  would 
get  along  faster.  Dearer  and  sweeter  that  lot  than  even  to 
have  been  your  bride  in  the  full  flush  &  strength  and  glory 
of  your  youth.  I  turn  my  face  to  the  westward  sky  before  I  lie 
down  to  sleep,  deep  &  steadfast  within  me  the  silent  aspira 
tion  that  every  year,  every  month  &  week,  may  help  some 
thing  to  prepare  and  make  fitter  me  and  mine  to  be  your 
comfort  and  joy.  We  are  full  of  imperfections,  short-comings 
but  half  developed,  but  half  "possessing  our  own  souls." 
But  we  grow,  we  learn,  we  strive — that  is  the  best  of  us.  I 
think  in  the  sunshine  of  your  presence  we  shall  grow  fast — I 
too,  my  years  notwithstanding.  May  the  New  Year  lead 
you  out  into  the  sunshine  again — shed  out  of  its  days  health 

103 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

&  strength,  so  that  you  tread  the  earth  in  gladness  again. 
This  with  love  from  us  all.  Good-bye,  dearest  Friend. 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 

Herby  was  at  a  Conversation  last  night  where  were  many  dis 
tinguished  men  &  beautiful  women.    Among  the  works  of 
art  displayed  on  the  walls  was  a  fine  photograph  of  you. 
1 9th,  afternoon. 

And  now  a  later  post  has  brought  me  the  other  No.  of  the 
Graphic  with  your  own  writing  in  it — so  full  of  life  and  spirit, 
so  fresh  &  cheerful  &  vivid,  dear  Friend,  it  seems  to  scatter 
all  anxious  sad  thoughts  to  the  winds.  And  are  you  then 
really  back  at  Washington,  I  wonder,  or  have  you  only 
visited  it  in  spirit,  &  written  the  recollection  of  former  even 
ings? 

I  shall  have  none  but  cheerful  thoughts  now.     I  shall 
reread  it  carefully — read  it  to  the  young  folk  at  tea  to-night. 


104 


LETTER     XIX 

ANNE    GILCHRIST   TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

50  Marquis  Rd. 
Camden  Sq. 

London 
26  Feb.,  1874. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

Glad  am  I  when  the  time  comes  round  for  writing  to  you 
again — though  I  can't  please  myself  with  my  letters,  poor 
little  echoes  that  they  are  of  the  loving,  hoping,  far-journey 
ing  thoughts  so  busy  within.  It  has  been  a  happy  time 
since  I  received  the  paper  with  the  joyful  news  you  were 
back  at  Washington,  well  on  your  way  to  recovery,  able 
partially  to  resume  work — scenting  from  afar  the  fresh 
breeze  &  sunshine  of  perfect  health — by  this  time,  not  from 
afar,  perhaps.  The  thought  of  that  makes  dull  days  bright 
&  bright  days  glorious  to  me  too.  I  note  in  the  New  York 
Graphic  that  a  new  edition  of  "Leaves  of  Grass"  was  called  for 
— sign  truly  that  America  is  not  so  very  slowly  &  now  absorb 
ing  the  precious  food  she  needs  above  all  else?  Perhaps, 
dear  Friend,  even  during  your  lifetime  will  begin  to  come  the 
proof  you  will  alone  accept — that  "your  country  absorbs  you 
as  affectionately  as  you  have  absorbed  it."  I  have  had  two 
great  pleasures  since  I  last  wrote  you.  One  is  that  Herby 
has  read  with  a  large  measure  of  responsive  delight  "Leaves  of 
Grass"  quite  through,  so  that  he  now  sees  you  with  his  own 
eyes  &  has  in  his  heart  the  living,  growing  germs  of  a  loving 
admiration  that  will  grow  with  his  growth  &  strengthen  every 

105 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

fibre  of  good  in  him.  Also  he  read  &  took  much  pride  in  my 
"  letters,"  now  shown  him  for  the  first  time.  Percy  has  had  a 
fortnight's  holiday  with  us,  and  looks  better  in  health, 
though  still  not  altogether  as  I  could  wish.  He  says  he  is 
getting  such  good  experience  he  would  not  care  just  yet  to 
change  his  post  even  for  better  pay.  Music  is  his  greatest 
pleasure — he  seems  to  get  more  enjoyment  out  of  that  than 
out  of  literature,  &  is  acquiring  some  practical  skill. 

To-day  (Feb.  25th)  is  my  birthday,  dearest  Friend — a  day 
my  children  always  make  very  bright  &  happy  to  me:  and  on 
it  they  make  me  promise  to  "do  nothing  but  what  1  like  all 
day."  So  I  shall  spend  it  with  you — partly  in  finishing  this 
letter,  partly  reading  in  the  book  that  is  so  dear  to  me — for 
that  is  indeed  my  soul  coming  into  the  presence  of  your  soul — 
filled  by  it  with  strength  &  warmth  &  joy.  In  discouraged 
moods,  when  oppressed  with  the  consciousness  of  my  own 
limitations,  failures,  lack  of  many  beautiful  gifts,  I  say  to 
myself,  "What  sort  of  a  bird  with  unfledged  wings  are  you 
that  would  mate  with  an  eagle?  Can  your  eyes  look  the 
sun  in  the  face  like  his?  Can  you  sustain  your  long,  lifelong 
flights  upward?  Can  you  rest  in  dizzy  rocks  overhanging 
dark,  tempestuous  abysses?  Is  your  heart  like  his,  a  great 
glowing  sun  of  Love?"  Then  I  answer,  "Give  me  Time." 
I  can  bide  my  time — a  long,  long  growing  &  unfolding  time. 
That  he  draws  me  with  such  power,  that  my  soul  has  found 
the  meaning  of  itself  in  him — the  object  of  all  its  deep,  death 
less  aspirations  in  comradeship  with  him,  means,  if  life  is 
not  a  mockery  clean  ended  by  death,  that  the  germs  are  in 
me,  that  through  cleaving  &  loving  &  ever  striving  up  &  on 
I  shall  grow  like  him — like  but  different — the  correlative — 
what  his  soul  needs  &  desires;  and  if  when  I  reach  America 
he  is  not  so  drawn  towards  me, — if  seeing  how  often  I  dis 
appoint  myself,  needs  must  that  he  too  is  disappointed,  still 
I  can  hold  bravely,  lovingly  on  to  this  inextinguishable 

106 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

faith  &  hope — with  the  added  joy  of  his  presence,  sometimes 
winning  from  him  more  &  more  a  dear  friendship,  yielding 
him  some  joy  &  comfort — for  he  too  turns  with  hope,  with 
yearning,  towards  me — bids  me  be  "  satisfied  &  at  peace!" 
So  I  am,  so  I  will  be,  my  darling.  Surely,  surely,  sooner  or 
later  I  shall  justify  that  hope,  satisfy  that  yearning.  This  is 
what  I  say  to  myself  &  to  you  this  46th  birthday.  Have  I 
said  it  over  &  over  again?  That  is  because  it  is  the  under 
current  of  my  whole  life.  The  Tribune  with  Proctor's  "  Lec 
ture  on  the  Sun"  (&  a  great  deal  besides  that  interests  me) 
came  safe.  A  masterly  lecture.  And  two  days  ago  came  the 
Philadelphia  paper  with  Prof.  Morton's  speech — deeply  in 
teresting.  And  as  I  read  these  things,  the  feeling  that  they 
have  come  from,  &  been  read  by,  you  turns  them  into  Poems 
for  me. 
Good-bye,  my  dearest  Friend. 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 

W.  Rossetti's  marriage  is  to  be  the  end  of  next  month.  Had  a 
pleasant  chat  with  Mr.  Conway,  who  took  supper  with  us  a 
week  or  two  ago. 


107 


LETTER     XX 
ANNE    GILCHRIST  TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

March  yth,  1874. 

With  full  heart,  with  eyes  wet  with  tears  of  joy  &  I  know 
not  what  other  deep  emotion — pain  of  yearning  pity  blent 
with  the  sense  of  grandeur — dearest  Friend,  have  I  read  and 
reread  the  great,  sacred  Poem  just  come  to  me.1  O  august 
Columbus!  whose  sorrows,  sufferings,  struggles  are  more  to 
be  envied  than  any  triumph  of  conquering  warrior — as  I  see 
him  in  your  poem  his  figure  merges  into  yours,  brother  of 
Columbus.  Completer  of  his  work,  discoverer  of  the  spirit 
ual,  the  ideal  America — you  too  have  sailed  over  stormy  seas 
to  your  goal — surrounded  with  mocking  disbelievers — you  too 
have  paid  the  great  price  of  health — our  Columbus. 

Your  accents  pierce  me  through  &  through. 

Your  loving  ANNIE. 

iThe  "Prayer  of  Columbus "  was  first  published  in  Harper's  Magazine  in  March,  1 874. 


108 


LETTER     XXI 

ANNE   GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 

50  Marquis  Rd. 
Camden  Sq. 
May  14,  1874. 

MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

Two  papers  have  come  to  hand  since  I  last  wrote,  one  con 
taining  the  memoranda  made  during  the  war — precious 
records,  eagerly  read  &  treasured  &  reread  by  me. 

How  the  busy  days  slip  by  one  so  like  another,  yet  each 
with  its  own  fresh  &  pleasant  flavour  &  scent,  as  like  and  as 
different  as  the  leaves  on  a  tree,  or  the  plants  in  the  hedge 
rows.  Days  they  are  busy  with  humble  enough  occupations, 
but  lit  up  for  me  not  only  with  the  light  of  hope,  but  with 
the  half-hidden  joy  of  one  who  knows  she  has  found  what  she 
sought  and  laid  such  strong  hold  upon  it  that  she  fears 
nothing,  questions  nothing — no  life,  or  death,  nor  in  the  end, 
in  her  own  imperfections,  flaws,  shortcomings.  For  to  be  so 
conscious  of  these,  and  to  love  and  understand  you  so,  are 
proofs  [that]  the  germs  of  all  are  in  her,  &  perhaps  in  the 
warmth  &  joyous  sunshine  of  your  presence  would  grow  fast. 
Anyhow,  distance  has  not  baffled  her,  and  time  will  not. 
A  great  deal  of  needlework  to  be  done  at  this  time  of  year; 
for  my  girls  have  not  time  for  any  at  present;  it  is  not  a  good 
contrast  or  the  right  thing  after  longish  hours  of  study — much 
better  household  activity  of  any  sort.  If  they  would  but 
understand  this  in  schools  &  colleges  for  girls  &  young 

109 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

women.  No  healthier  or  more  cheerful  occupation  as  a 
relief  from  study,  could  be  found  than  household  work— sweep 
ing,  scrubbing,  washing,  ironing,  cooking — in  the  variety  of 
it,  &  equable  development  of  the  muscles,  I  should  think  equal 
to  the  most  elaborate  gymnastics.  I  know  very  well  how  I 
have  felt,  &  still  feel,  the  want  of  having  been  put  to  these 
things  when  a  girl.  Then  the  importance  afterwards  of  doing 
them  easily  &  well  &  without  undue  fatigue,  to  all  who  aim  to 
give  practical  shape  to  their  ardent  belief  in  equality  &  fair 
play  for  all.  In  domestic  life  under  one  roof,  at  all  events,  it 
is  already  feasible  to  make  the  disposals  without  ignominious 
distinctions — not  all  the  rough  bodily  work,  never  ending, 
leisure  all  to  the  other;  but  a  wholesome  interchange  and 
sharing  of  these.  Not  least  too  among  the  advantages  of 
taking  an  active  share  in  these  duties  is  the  zest,  the  keen 
relish,  it  gives  to  the  hours  not  too  easily  secured  for  reading 
&  music.  Besides,  I  often  think  that  just  as  the  Poem 
Nature  is  made  up  half  of  rude,  rough  realities  and  homely 
materials  &  processes,  so  it  is  necessary  for  women  to  con 
struct  their  Poem,  Home,  on  a  groundwork  of  homeliest 
details  &  occupations,  providing  for  the  bodily  wants  &  com 
forts  of  their  household,  and  that  without  putting  their  own 
hands  to  this,  their  Poem  will  lack  the  vital,  fresh,  growing, 
nature-like  quality  that  alone  endures,  and  that  of  this 
soil  will  grow,  with  fitting  preparation  &  culture,  noble  & 
more  vigorous  intellectual  life  in  women,  fit  to  embody  it 
self  in  wider  spheres  afterwards — if  the  call  comes. 

This  month  of  May  that  comes  to  you  so  laden  with  great 
and  sorrowful  &  beautiful  &  tender  memories,  and  that  is 
your  birth-month  too,  I  cannot  say  that  I  think  of  you  more 
than  at  any  other  time,  for  there  is  no  month  nor  day  that 
my  thoughts  do  not  habitually  &  spontaneously  turn  to  you, 
refer  all  to  you — yet  I  seem  to  come  closer  because  of  the 
Poems  that  tell  me  of  what  relates  to  that  time;  but  most  of 

no 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

all  when  I  think  of  your  beloved  Mother,  because  then  I 
often  yearn,  more  than  I  know  how  to  bear,  to  comfort  you 
with  love  and  tender  care  and  silent  companionship.  May  is 
in  a  sense  (&  a  very  real  one)  my  birth-month  too,  for  in  it 
were  your  Poems  first  put  into  my  hand.  I  wish  I  were  quite 
sure  that  you  no  longer  suffer  in  your  head,  and  that  you  can 
move  about  without  effort  or  difficulty — perhaps  before  long 
there  will  be  a  paper  with  some  paragraph  about  your  health, 
for  though  we  say  to  ourselves  no  news  is  good  news,  it  is  a 
very  different  thing  to  have  the  absolute  affirmation  of 
good  news. 

My  children  are  all  well  and  hearty,  I  am  thankful  to  say, 
&  working  industriously.  Grace  means  to  study  the  best 
system  of  kindergarten  teaching — I  fancy  she  is  well  suited 
for  kindergarten  teaching  &  that  it  is  very  excellent  work. 

Herby  is  still  drawing  from  the  antique  in  the  British 
Museum.  I  hope  he  will  get  into  the  Academy  this  summer. 
He  is  going  to  spend  his  holidays  with  his  brother  in  South 
Wales — and  we  as  usual  at  Colne,  but  that  will  not  be  till 
August. 

Did  I  tell  you  William  Rossetti  and  his  bride  were  spending 
their  honeymoon  at  Naples?  &  have  found  it  bitterly  cold 
there,  I  learn.  Mr.  &  Mrs.  Conway  &  their  children  are 
well.  Eustace  is  coming  to  spend  the  afternoon  with  Herby 
to-morrow. 

Good-bye,  my  dearest  Friend. 

ANNIE  GILCHRIST. 


in 


LETTER     XXII 

ANNE    GILCHRIST  TO   WALT  WHITMAN 

50  Marquis  Rd. 
Camden  Sq. 
July 4,  1874. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

Are  you  well  and  happy,  and  enjoying  this  beautiful  sum 
mer?  London  is,  in  one  sense,  a  sort  of  big  prison  at  this 
time  of  year:  but  still  at  a  wide  open  window,  with  the  blue 
sky  opening  to  me  &  a  soft  breeze  blowing  in  &  the  Book  that 
is  so  dear — my  life-giving  treasure — open  on  my  lap,  I  have 
very  happy  times.  No  one  hundreds  of  years  hence  will  find 
deeper  joy  in  these  poems  than  I — breathe  the  fresh,  sweet, 
exhilarating  air  of  them,  bathe  in  it,  drink  in  what  nourishes 
&  delights  the  whole  being,  body,  intellect  &  soul,  more  than 
I.  Nor  could  you,  when  writing  them,  have  desired  to  come 
nearer  to  a  human  being  &  be  more  to  them  forever  &  for 
ever  than  you  are  &  will  be  to  me.  O  I  take  the  hand  you 
stretch  out  each  day — I  put  mine  into  it  with  a  sense  of 
utter  fulfilment:  I  ask  nothing  more  of  time  and  of  eternity 
but  to  live  and  grow  up  to  that  companionship  that  includes 
all. 

6th.  This  very  morning  has  come  the  answer  to  my 
question.  First  I  only  saw  the  Poem — read  it  so  elate— 
soared  with  it  to  joyous  heights,  said  to  myself:  "He  is  so 
well  again,  he  is  able  to  take  the  journey  into  Massachusetts 
&  speak  the  kindling  words."  Then  I  turned  over  and  my 
joy  was  dashed.  My  Darling;  such  patience  yet  needed 

112 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

along  the  tedious  path!  Oh,  it  makes  me  long,  with 
passionate  longings,  with  yearnings  I  know  not  how  to  bear, 
to  come,  to  be  your  loving,  cheerful  companion,  the  one  to 
take  such  care,  to  do  all  for  you — to  beguile  the  time,  to  give 
you  of  my  health  as  you  have  done  to  tens  of  thousands. 
I  do  not  doubt,  either,  but  that  you  will  get  well.  I  feel  sure, 
.sure,  it  will  be  given  me  to  see  you;  and  perhaps  a  very  slow, 
gradual  recovery  is  safest — is  the  only  way  in  this  as  in  other 
matters  to  thoroughness;  &  a  very  speedy  rally  would  be 
specious,  treacherous,  in  the  end,  leading  you  to  do  what  you 
were  not  yet  fit  for.  I  believe  if  I  could  only  make  you 
conscious  of  the  love,  the  enfolding  love,  my  heart  breathes 
out  toward  you  it  would  do  you  physical  good;  many- 
sided  love — Mother's  love  that  cherishes,  that  delights  so  in 
personal  service,  that  sees  in  sickness  &  suffering  such  dear 
appeals  to  an  answering,  limitless  tenderness — wife's  love— 
ah,  you  draw  that  from  me  too,  resistlessly — I  have  no 
choice — comrade's  love,  so  happy  in  sharing  all,  pain,  sorrow, 
toil,  effort,  enjoyments,  thoughts,  hopes,  aims,  struggles, 
disappointment,  beliefs,  aspirations.  Child's  love,  too,  that 
trusts  utterly,  confides  unquestioningly.  Not  more  spon 
taneously,  &  wholly  without  effort  or  volition  on  my  part, 
does  the  sunlight  flow  into  my  eyes  when  I  open  them  in  the 
morning  than  does  the  sense  of  your  existence  enter  like 
bright  light  into  my  awaking  soul.  And  then  I  send  to  you 
thoughts — tender,  caressing  thoughts — that  would  fain 
nestle  so  close — ah,  if  you  could  feel  them,  take  them  in,  let 
them  lie  in  your  breast,  each  morning. 

My  children  are  all  well,  dear  Friend.  Herbert  is  going  to 
spend  his  holidays  with  his  brother  in  Wales — &  we  shall  all 
go  to  Colne  as  usual  the  end  of  this  month  &  remain  there 
through  August  and  September;  so  if  you  think  of  it,  address 
any  paper  you  may  send  [to]  Earls  Colne,  Halstead,  because 
I  should  get  it  a  day  sooner.  But  it  does  not  signify  if  you 

113 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

forget  &  send  it  here;  it  will  be  forwarded  all  right.  Beatrice 
has  just  got  through  one  of  the  Govern.  Exams,  in  elementary 
mathematics;  and  I  hope  Herby  has  got  into  the  Academy, 
but  do  not  know  for  certain  yet.  He  works  away  zealously 
and  with  great  delight  in  his  work.  William  Rossetti  and 
his  wife  are  coming  to  dine  with  us  Wednesday— they  look  so 
well  and  happy,  it  does  one  good  to  see  them.  The  Conways 
are  going  to  Ostend,  I  think,  for  their  holiday,  &  when  they 
come  back  [are]  going  to  move  into  a  larger  house.  I  heard 
an  American  lady,  Miss  Whitman,  sing  at  a  concert  the 
other  day,  who  delighted  me,  fascinated  me— I  longed  to 
kiss  her  after  each  song,  though  some  of  them  were  poor 
enough  Verdi  stuff — but  she  contrived  to  impart  genuine 
ness  &  beauty  to  them.  I  hope  you  will  hear  her  when  she 
returns  to  America,  which  will  be  soon,  I  believe. 

Good-bye,  dearest  Friend.  Beatrice,  Herby  &  Grace 
join  their  love  with  mine.  I  had  the  sweet  little  Bridal  Poem 
all  safe,  &  by  the  bye  I  liked  that  Springfield  paper  very 
much. 

Your  loving  ANNIE. 


114 


LETTER     XXIII 

ANNEGILCHRISTTO     WALTWHITMAN 

Earls  Colne 
Sept.  3,  1874. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

The  change  down  here  has  refreshed  me  more  than  usual 
and  I  find  my  Mother  still  wonderful  for  her  years  (the  89th), 
able  to  get  out  daily  in  her  Bath  chair  for  two  or  three  hours— 
to  enjoy  our  being  with  her,  and  suffering  little  or  no  pain 
from  rheumatism  now.  I  hope  you  have  had  as  glorious  a 
summer  &  harvest  as  we  have,  and  that  you  are  able  to  be 
much  out  of  doors  and  absorb  the  health-giving  influences, 
dear  Friend.  Such  mornings!  So  fresh  and  invigourating. 
I  have  been  before  breakfast  mostly  in  a  beautiful  garden 
(the  old  Priory  garden)  with  my  beloved  Poems  and  the 
dew-laden  flowers  and  liquid  light  and  sweet,  fresh  air;  & 
the  sparkle  of  the  pond  &  delicious  greenness  of  the  meadows 
beyond  &  rustling  trees,  and  had  a  joyful  time  with  you,  my 
Darling — sometimes  with  thoughts  that  lay  hold  on  "the 
solid  prizes  of  the  Universe,"  sometimes  so  busy  building  up 
a  home  in  America,  thinking,  dreaming,  hoping,  loving, 
groping  among  dim  shadows,  straining  wistful  eyes  into  the 
dim  distance — then  to  my  poems  again — ah!  not  groping 
then,  but  hand  in  hand  with  you,  breathing  the  air  you 
breathe,  with  eyes  ardently  fixed  in  the  same  direction  your 
eyes  look,  heart  beating  strong  with  the  same  hopes,  aspira 
tions,  yours  beats  with.  It  does  not  need  to  be  American 
to  love  America  and  to  believe  in  the  great  future  of  humanity 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

there;  it  is  curious  to  be  human,  still  more  English  to  do  that. 
I  love  &  believe  in  &  understand  her  in  &  through  you:  but 
was  always  drawn  towards  her,  always  a  believer,  though  in 
a  vaguer  way,  that  a  new  glorious  day  for  men  &  womer  was 
dawning  there,  and  recognized  a  new,  distinctive  American 
quality,  very  congenial  to  me,  even  in  American  virtues, 
which  you  not  perhaps  rate  highly  or  retard  as  decisively 
national,  not  adequately  or  commandingly  so,  at  any  rate. 
Did  I  ever  tell  you  the  cousin  of  mine1  who  owns  the  priory 
here  fought  for  two  years  in  the  Secession  war  in  the  army  of 
the  Potomac  when  Burnside  &  McClellan  were  at  the  head? 
John  Cowardine  was  Major  in  a  Cavalry  regiment — was  at 
Vicksburg,  Frederickburg,  &c.  Never  wounded,  or  but 
slightly — had  a  good  deal  of  outpost  duty,  being  just  the 
right  sort  of  a  man  for  that,  &  has  letters  of  approval  from  his 
generals  of  which  he  is  not  a  little  proud.  Before  that  fought 
under  the  Stars  &  Stripes  in  Mexico  &  has  had  a  curiously 
adventurous  career,  which  he  commenced  by  running  away 
from  a  military  college,  where  he  was  being  prepared  for  a 
cadetship,  &  enlisting  as  a  private — getting  out  of  that  by 
&  bye  and  working  his  way  before  the  mast  as  a  sailor — then 
mining  in  California — then  in  Australia,  riding  steeple 
chases,  keeper  of  the  Melrose  hounds,  market  gardening, 
hotel  keeping,  then  on  his  way  back  to  California,  cast  ashore 
on  one  of  the  Navigator  Islands,  where  he  remained  for  six 
months,  the  only  white  man  among  savages,  who  were 
friendly  &  made  much  of  him— now,  come  into  a  good  estate, 
married  to  a  woman  who  seems  to  suit  him  well  &  is  healthy, 
cheerful  rich  &  handsome,  he  has  fallen  into  indifferent  health 
&  considerable  depression  of  spirits.  Perhaps  he  finds  the 
atmosphere  of  Squirearchical  gentility  very  stagnant,  the 
bed  of  roses  stifling — perhaps,  too,  the  severe  privations  he 
has  at  different  times  undergone  have  injured  him.  I 

>John  Cowardine.    See^'Anne  Gilchrist,  Her  Life  and  Writings,"  pp.  149  ff. 

116 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

often  think  he  was  perhaps  one  of  those  your  eyes  rested 
on  with  pride  &  admiration — "handsome,  tan-faced,  dressed 
in  blue. "  He  is  the  very  ideal  of  a  soldier  in  appearance  & 
bearing — has  now  some  fine  children,  of  whom  he  is  very 
fond. 

It  was  just  this  time  of  year  I  received  the  precious  letter 
and  ring  that  put  peace  and  joy,  and  yet  such  pain  of  yearn 
ing,  into  my  heart — pain  for  you,  my  Darling.  O  sorrowing 
helpless  love  that  waits,  and  must  wait,  useless,  afar  off,  while 
you  suffer.  But  trying  every  day  of  my  life  to  grow  fitter, 
more  capable  of  being  your  comfort  and  joy  and  true  com 
rade — never  to  cease  trying  this  side  death  or  the  other — 
rejoicing  in  my  children  more  than  I  ever  rejoiced  in  them 
before,  now  that  in  and  through  you  I  for  the  first  time  see 
and  understand  humanity  (myself  included) — its  divine 
nature,  its  possibilities,  nay,  its  certainties.  How  I  do  long 
for  you  to  see  my  children ,  dear  Friend,  and  for  them  to  see 
and  love  you  as  they  will  love  you,  and  all  their  nature  unfold 
and  grow  more  vigorously  and  joyously  under  your  influence. 
Gracie,  of  whom  you  have  photographs,  grows  fast, — is  such 
a  fine,  blooming  girl.  I  hope  soon  to  send  you  one  of  Beatrice 
too.  They  have  been  enjoying  their  visit  here  and  are  now 
gone  home.  Gracie  for  school,  Beatrice  for  the  examination 
at  Apoth.  Hall  she  is  hoping  to  get  through.  Then  she  is 
coming  here  to  be  with  my  Mother,  &  I  going  back  to  Lon 
don.  We  mean  now  one  or  other  of  us  always  to  be  with 
my  Mother  here.  Herby  has  had  such  a  happy  time  with 
his  brother  in  Wales — &  is  looking  as  brown  as  a  nut  &  full  of 
health  &  life — he  had  a  swim  in  the  sea  every  day.  He  did 
succeed  in  getting  into  the  Academy,  &  will  begin  work  there 
Oct.  ist!  Be  sure,  dear  Friend,  if  there  is  a  word  about  your 
health  in  any  paper  to  send  it  me — that  is  what  I  search  for 
so  eagerly — to  have  the  joyful  news  you  are  getting  on — but 
even  if  it  is  but  so  very  very  slowly,  still  I  would  rather  know 

117 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

the  truth — I  do  not  like  thinking  of  you  mistakenly.  I  want 
to  send  you  the  thoughts,  the  yearnings,  that  belong  to  you, 
the  cherishing  love  that  enfolds  you  most  tenderly  of  all 
when  you  suffer.  O  if  I  could  send  it!  and  the  cheerful  com 
panionship,  beguiling  the  time  while  strength  creeps  back. 
I  hope  your  little  nieces  at  St.  Louis  are  well. 

Good-bye,  my  dearest  Friend.     Herby,  the  only  one  here 
with  me,  would  like  to  join  his  love  with  mine. 

ANNIE  GILCHRIST. 
I  go  back  the  beginning  of  October. 
Sep.  i^tb. 


LETTER     XXIV 

ANNE    GILCHRIST   TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

50  Marquis  Rd. 
Camden  Sq.  London 

Dec.  9,  1874. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

It  did  me  much  good  to  get  your  Poem — beautiful,  earnest, 
eloquent  words  from  the  soul  whose  dear  companionship  mine 
seeks  with  persistent  longing — wrestling  with  distance  &  time. 
It  seems  to  me,  too,  from  your  having  spoken  the  Poem  your 
self  I  may  conclude  you  have  made  fair  progress.  What  I 
would  fain  know  is  whether  you  have  recovered  the  use  of  the 
left  side  so  far  as  to  get  about  pretty  freely  and  to  have  as 
much  open-air  life  as  you  need  &  like;  and  also  whether  you 
have  quite  ceased  to  suffer  distressing  sensations  in  the  head. 
If  you  can  say  yes  to  the  first  question,  will  you  in  sign  of  it 
put  a  dash  under  the  word  London,  and  if  yes  to  the  second 
under  England,  when  you  next  send  me  a  paper?  Unless 
indeed  the  paper  itself  contain  a  notice  of  your  health.  But 
if  it  does  not,  that  would  be  an  easy  way  of  gladdening  me 
with  good  news,  if  good  news  there  is.  I  wish  I  could  send 
you  good  letters,  dearest  Friend,  making  myself  the  vehicle 
of  what  is  stirring  around  me  in  life  &  thought  that  would 
interest  you;  for  there  is  plenty.  But  that  is  very  hard  to 
do — though  I  watch,  hear,  read  eagerly,  full  of  interest. 
Everything  stirs  in  me  a  cloud  of  questions,  makes  me  want 
to  see  its  relationship  to  what  I  hold  already.  I  am  for 
ever  brooding,  pondering,  sifting,  testing — but  that  is  not 
the  bent  of  mind  that  enables  one  to  reproduce  one's  impres- 

119 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

sions  in  compact  &  lively  form.  So  please,  dear  Friend,  be 
indulgent,  as  indeed  I  know  you  will  be,  of  these  poor  letters 
of  mine  with  their  details  of  my  children  &  their  iterated  and 
reiterated  expressions  of  the  love  and  hope  and  aspiration 
you  have  called  into  life  within  me — take  them  not  for  what 
they  are,  but  for  all  they  have  to  stand  for.  Beatrice  is  at 
Colne  (having  got  well  through  the  exam,  we  were  anxious 
about  in  the  autumn)  and  is  a  very  great  comfort  to  my 
Mother — as  I  well  knew  she  would  be;  for  a  more  affectionate, 
devoted,  care-taking  nature  does  not  breathe — with  a  strong 
active  mental  life  of  her  own  too.  So,  though  missing  her  sorely, 
I  am  well  satisfied  she  should  be  there;  and  the  country  life  and 
rest  are  doing  her  a  world  of  good.  My  artist  boy  is  working 
away  cheerily  at  the  R.  Academy,  his  heart  in  his  work.  Percy 
is  coming  to  spend  Xmas  with  us — he,  too,  continues  well  con 
tent  with  his  work  and  in  good  health.  Gracie  is  blooming. 
The  Rossettis  have  had  a  heavy  affliction  this  first  year  of 
their  married  life  in  the  premature  death  of  her  only  brother 
— a  young  man  of  considerable  promise — barely  20. 

The  Conways  are  well.  I  feel  more  completely  myself  than 
I  have  done  since  my  illness — so  you  see,  dear  friend,  if  it  has 
taken  me  quite  four  years  to  recover  the  lost  ground,  one 
must  not  be  discouraged  if  two  do  not  accomplish  it  in  your 
case.  I  hope  your  little  nieces1  at  St.  Louis  are  well — and  the 
brothers  you  are  with,  and  that  you  have  many  dear  friends 
round  you  at  Camden. 

I  think  my  thoughts  fly  to  you  on  strongest  and  most 
joyous  wings  when  I  am  out  walking  in  the  clear,  cold,  elastic 
air  I  enjoy  so  much. 

Good-bye,  my  dearest  Friend. 

ANNIE  GILCHRIST. 

A  cheerful  Christmas,  a  New  Year  of  which  each  day  brings 
its  share  of  restorative  influence,  be  yours. 

1  Daughters  of  Thomas  Jefferson  Whitman. 

120 


LETTER     XXV 

ANNEGILCHRISTTO    WALT   WHITMAN 

50  Marquis  Rd. 
Camden  Sq. 
Dec.  30,  1874. 

I  see,  my  dearest  Friend,  I  must  not  look  for  those  dashes 
under  the  words  I  thought  were  going  to  convey  a  joyful 
confirmation  of  my  hopes.  I  see  how  the  dark  clouds  linger. 
Full  of  pain  &  indignation.  I  read  the  paragraph — but 
fuller  still  of  yearning  tenderness  &  trust  and  hope.  I  believe, 
my  dear  love,  that  what  you  need  to  help  on  your  recovery  is 
a  woman's  tender,  cherishing  love  and  care,  and  that  in  that 
warm,  genial  atmosphere  the  spring  of  life  will  be  quickened 
once  more  and  flow  full  and  strong  through  all  its  channels 
as  of  old,  gradually,  not  quickly,  even  so.  I  dare  say:  but 
with  plenty  of  patience;  with  utmost  intelligent  care  of  all 
conditions  favourable  to  health,  of  diet,  of  abundant  oxygen 
in  the  rooms  you  inhabit,  of  as  much  outdoor  life  as  possible, 
of  happy,  cheerful  companionship,  &  all  the  homely  everyday 
domestic  joys  which  are  so  helpful  in  their  influences.  Amer 
ica  is  doing  what  nations  in  all  times  have  done  towards  that 
which  is  profoundly  new  &  great,  that  which  discredits  their 
old  ideals  and  offers  them  strange  fruits  &  flowers  from 
another  world  than  that  they  have  been  content  to  dwell  in 
all  their  lives.  But  for  all  that  I  do  not  believe  the  precious 
seed  is  lying  dormant  even  now — everywhere  a  few  in  whose 
hearts  it  is  treasured  &  yields  a  noble  growth.  Since  it  is 
America  that  has  produced  you  nourished  your  soul  and  body, 
she  is  silently,  unnoticed,  producing  men  &  women  who  will 

121 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

justify  you,  who  will  understand  the  meaning  of  all  and 
respond  with  a  love  that  will  quicken  &  exalt  humanity  as 
Christ's  influence  once  did.  Still  it  is  inscrutable  to  me  that 
the  heart  of  America  is  not  now  passionately  drawn  toward  the 
great  heart  that  beats  &  glows  in  these  Poems — that  "Drum 
Taps/'  at  any  rate,  are  not  as  dear  to  her  as  the  memory 
of  her  dead  heroes,  sons,  brothers,  husbands.  It  must  be 
that  they  really  do  not  reach  the  hands  of  the  American 
people  at  large — that  the  professedly  literary,  cultivated 
class  asking  for  nothing  better  than  the  pretty  sing-song 
sentimentalities  which  "join  them  in  their  nonsense,"  or 
else  slavishly  prostrating  their  judgments  before  the  models 
of  the  past  (so  perfect  for  their  day,  so  wholly  inadequate 
for  ours),  raise  their  voices  so  loud  in  newspapers  &  magazines 
as  to  prevent  or  everywhere  check  the  circulation. 
Jan.  i .  The  New  Year  has  come  in  bleakly  &  keenly  to  the 
inner  as  well  as  to  the  outer  sense,  with  the  papers  full  of  the 
details  of  the  dark  fate  of  the  emigrant  ship  &  of  the  terrible 
railway  accidents.  Percy  was  not  able  to  join  us  at  Xmas 
(through  business)  but  I  am  expecting  him  to-night.  My 
mother  bears  up  against  the  cold  wonderfully — &  even  con 
tinues  to  go  out  in  her  chair.  Bee's  letters  are  very  bright 
&  cheerful — she  &  indeed  all  my  children  enjoy  the  cold 
much,  provided  they  have  plenty  of  out-door  exercise — above 
all  skating,  which  they  are  now  enjoying.  I  too  like  it,  but 
am  so  haunted  by  the  thought  of  the  increased  misery  it 
brings  to  our  hundreds  of  thousands  of  ill-fed,  ill-clothed,  ill- 
housed.  I  trust  the  family  circle  round  you  &  your  nieces 
at  St.  Louis  &  all  near  &  dear  to  you  are  well,  and  that  you 
have  felt  the  warm  grasp  of  many  loving  friends  this  wintry, 
cloudy  time,  my  dearest — and  that  there  may  breathe  out  of 
these  poor  words  a  warm,  bright  glow  of  love  and  hope  & 
unrestricted  trust  in  the  future.  t 

A.  GILCHRIST. 

122' 


LETTER     XXVI 

ANNE   GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 

Earls  Colne,  Halstead 

Feb.  21,  1875. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND:' 

I  have  run  down  to  Colne  for  a  glimpse  of  my  dear  Bee, 
whom  I  had  not  seen  for  five  months,  and  of  my  Mother;  & 
now  I  am  alone  with  the  latter,  Beatrice  taking  my  place  at 
home  with  her  brother  &  sister  for  a  week  or  two.  A  won 
derful  evergreen  my  Mother  continues;  still  able  to  face  the 
keen  winds  &  the  frost  daily  in  her  Bath  chair — well  swathed, 
of  course  in  eiderdown  &  flannels.  Beatrice  takes  beautiful 
care  of  her  &  is  happy  &  content  with  her  life  here,  loving  the 
country  as  dearly  as  I  do  &  having  time  enough  for  study  & 
reading,  as  well  as  for  domestic  activities,  to  keep  her  mind 
as  busy  as  her  body.  How  I  do  long  for  you  to  see  my 
children,  dearest  Friend.  I  wonder  if  you  are  surrounded 
with  any  in  your  brother's  home — young,  growing,  blossom 
ing  plants  that  gladden  you.  And  I  wonder  if  the  winter, 
which  I  hear  is  so  severe  in  America  this  year,  tries  you — • 
whether  you  can  yet  move  briskly  enough  to  keep  up  the 
circulation — and  whether  you  have  as  many  dear  friends 
round  you  as  you  had  at  Washington.  In  my  walks  I  keep 
thinking  of  these  things.  Write  me  a  little  letter  once  more, 
it  would  do  me  such  good.  No  one  of  all  your  friends  so  easy 
as  I  to  write  to  because  none  to  whom  any  &  every  little 
detail  is  so  welcome,  so  precious — lifting  a  tiny  corner  of 
the  great  vast  of  space  between  us,  giving  me  for  a  moment 

123 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

to  feel  the  friendly  grasp  of  your  hand — I  that  long  for 
it  so.  Two  years  are  over  since  your  illness  began,  or  seemed 
to  begin,  dearest  friend — so  slow  &  stealthy  in  its  approaches, 
so  slow  &  stealthy  in  its  retreat — may  the  spring  that  is 
coming  (the  birds  have  already  caught  sight  of  it,  cold  & 
brown  &  bare  as  the  landscape  still  is) — may  it  but  come  laden 
with  healing,  strengthening,  refreshing  influences — so  that 
you  begin  to  feel  again  the  joyous  freedom  of  health,  warbling 
once  more  a  song  of  joy  for  lilac  time.  True,  I  know  indeed, 
my  dearest,  that  anyhow  you  are  content,  not  grudging  the 
price  paid  for  your  life  work,  but  even  some  way  or  other  the 
richer  for  paying  it — garnering  precious  equivalents  for 
pain  &  privation  of  health  in  your  inmost  soul.  I  cannot 
choose  but  believe  this  earnestly — the  resplendent  faith 
that  there  is  not  "one  cause  nor  result  lamentable,  at  last, 
in  the  Universe"  which  glows  throughout  the  Poems  is  for 
me  an  exhaustless  source  of  strength  &  comfort. — I  see  every 
now  &  then  &  like  the  more  each  time  the  Conways.  I  am 
half  afraid  Mr.  Conway  works  too  incessantly — that  is,  does 
not  like  well  enough  the  indispensable  supplement  of  close 
mental  work — plenty  of  air  &  exercise,  &c., — hates  walking, 
&  indeed  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  in  great,  smoky  London 
(I  shall  be  fond  enough  &  proud  enough  of  it  too  when  I  am 
over  the  Atlantic).  Unless  one  has  a  real  passion  for  open 
air  &  the  sense  of  sky  overhead,  like  me.  I  hear  Mr.  Conway 
is  coming  to  America  for  six  months  in  October. 

Feb.  25 — I  kept  my  letter  till  to-day  that  I  might  have 
the  happiness  of  speaking  to  you  on  my  birthday.  See  me 
this  evening  in  the  bright,  cheerful  parlour  of  our  cottage, 
which  stands  just  in  the  middle  of  the  old  village  (it  has  been 
a  village  &  jogged  on  through  all  change  at  its  own  sober, 
sleepy  pace  this  800  years) — my  mother  in  her  arm  chair  by 
the  fire;  I  chatting  with  her  &  working  or  playing  to  her  when 
she  is  awake;  &  with  the  Poems  I  love  beside  me,  reading, 

124 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

musing,  wondering  while  she  dozes.  Ah,  shall  I  ever  attain 
to  the  Ideal  that  burst  upon  me  with  such  splendour  of  light 
&  joy  in  those  Poems  in  1 869 — so  filling,  so  possessing  me,  I 
seemed  as  if  I  had  by  one  bound  attained  to  that  ideal — as 
if  I  were  already  a  very  twin  of  the  soul  from  whom  they 
emanated.  But  now  I  know  that  divine  foretaste  indicated 
what  was  possible  for  me,  not  what  was  accomplished — I 
know  the  slow  growth — the  standstill  winters  that  follow  the 
growing  joyous  springs  &  ripening  summers.  I  believe  it 
will  take  more  lives  than  this  one  to  reach  that  mountain  on 
which  I  was  transfigured  again,  never  to  descend  more,  but 
to  start  thence  for  new  heights,  fresh  glories.  Ah,  dear 
friend,  will  you  be  able  to  have  patience  with  me,  for  me? 
Good-bye,  my  dearest. 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 


123 


LETTER     XXVII 

ANNE    GILCHRIST   TO   WALT  WHITMAN 

50  Marquis  Rd.,  Camden  Sq. 
London,  May  18,  1875. 

MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

Since  last  I  wrote  to  you  at  the  beginning  of  April  (enclos 
ing  a  little  photograph  of  that  avenue  just  by  our  cottage 
at  Colne)  I  have  been  into  Wales  for  a  fortnight  to  see  Percy, 
&  have  looked  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  on  the  Atlantic — the 
ocean  my  mental  eyes  travel  over  &  beyond  so  often  and  that 
your  eyes  and  ears  &  heart  have  been  fed  by,  have  communed 
with  and  interpreted,  as  in  a  new  tongue,  to  the  soul  of  man. 
Looking  upon  that,  watching  the  tides  ebb  &  flow  on  your 
shores,  sharing,  through  my  beloved  book,  in  those  greatest 
movements  you  have  spent  alone  with  it — that  was  a  new 
joyful  experience,  a  fresh  kind  of  communing  with  you. — I 
went  to  Wales  because  I  felt  anxious  about  Percy,  who  is 
'not  happy  just  now.  I  must  not  tell  friends  here  about  it 
(except  his  brother  &  sisters)  but  I  am  sure  I  may  tell  you, 
for  you  will  listen  with  sympathy.  He  has  attached  himself 
very  deeply,  I  think  it  will  prove,  to  a  girl,  &  she  to  him, 
whose  parents  welcomed  him  cordially  to  their  house  for  a 
year  or  two  &  allowed  plenty  of  intercourse  till  they  became 
aware  through  Percy  himself  (who  thought  it  right  to  tell 
the  father  as  soon  as  he  was  fully  aware  of  his  own  feelings  & 
more  than  suspected  Norah's  response  to  them)  that  there 
was  a  strong  affection  growing  up  between  the  two.  Then 
they  peremptorily  forbade  all  intercourse — not  because  they 

126 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

have  any  objection  to  Percy — quite  the  contrary,  they  say; 
but  solely  and  simply  because  he  is  not  yet  earning  money 
enough  to  marry  on,  &  they  hold  that  a  man  has  no  right  to 
engage  a  girl's  affections  till  he  can  do  so.  As  if  these  things 
could  be  timed  to  the  moment  the  money  comes  in !  Percy 
was  in  hopes,  &  so  was  I,  that  if  I  went  down,  I  might  get 
sense  enough  into  their  heads,  if  not  kindness  &  sympathy 
into  their  hearts,  to  see  that  the  sole  effect  of  such  arbitrary 
&  narrow-sighted  conduct  would  be  to  alienate  &  embitter 
the  young  people's  feelings  toward  them,  while  it  would 
make  them  more  restless  &  anxious  to  marry  without  ade 
quate  means.  Whereas  if  a  reasonable  amount  of  inter 
course  were  allowed,  it  would  be  a  happy  time  with  them,  & 
Norah  being  still  so  young  (18),  &  Percy  working  away  with 
all  his  might,  doing  very  well  for  his  age  &  sure,  conscientious, 
thorough,  capable,  &  well  trained  worker  that  he  is  (for  the  L. 
School  of  Mais  gives  a  first  rate  scientific  preparation  for 
his  profession)  to  be  making  a  modest  sufficiency  in  a  year 
or  two.  Well,  they  were  very  courteous  &  indeed  friendly 
to  me,  &  I  think  I  have  won  over  the  mother;  but  the  father 
remains  obdurate,  &  Percy  feels  bitterly  the  separation — all 
the  more  trying  as  they  live  almost  within  sight  of  each 
other.  So  Beatrice  &  Grace  are  going  to  spend  their  holi 
days  with  him  this  summer  to  cheer  him  up.  Meanwhile, 
dear  friend,  I  am  on  the  whole  happier  than  not  about  him. 
I  liked  what  1  saw  of  Norah  &  believe  he  has  found  a  very 
sweet,  affectionate  girl  of  quiet,  domestic  nature,  practical, 
industrious,  sensible — thoroughly  well  to  suit  him,  &  that 
there  is  true  &  deep  love  between  them — also,  she  took  to 
me  very  much,  &  I  feel  will  be  quite  another  child  to  me.  It 
is  besides  no  little  joy  to  me  to  find  how  Percy  has  confided  in 
me  in  this  &  chooses  me  as  the  friend  to  whom  he  tells  all — 
far  from  being  any  separation,  as  sometimes  happens,  this 
love  of  his  seems  to  draw  us  closer  together.  Only  I  am 

127 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

very,  very  anxious  for  his  sake  to  see  him  in  a  better  berth — 
they  would  let  her  marry  him  on  £300  a  year;  now  he  has 
only  £  1 75 .  He  is  quite  competent  to  manage  iron  or  copper  or 
tin  works,  only  he  looks  so  young,  not  having  yet  any  beard 
or  moustache  to  speak  of.  That  is  the  end  of  my  long 
story. 

This  will  reach  you  on  your  birthday  perhaps,  my  dearest 
Friend;  at  any  rate  it  must  bear  you  a  greeting  of  love  and 
fond  remembrance  for  that  dear  day  such  as  my  heart  will 
send  you  when  it  actually  comes:  patiently  waiting  heart, 
with  the  fibres  of  love  and  boundless  trust  &  joy  &  hope  which 
bind  me  to  you  bedded  deep,  grown  to  be,  during  these  long 
years,  a  very  part  of  its  immortal  substance,  untouchable  by 
age  or  varying  moods  or  sickness,  or  death  itself,  as  I  surely 
believe.  I  long  more  than  words  can  tell  to  know  how  it 
fares  with  you  now  in  health  and  spirit.  My  children  are 
all  well  &  growing  &  unfolding  to  my  heart's  content.  Bea 
trice  &  Herbert  deeply  influenced  by  your  Poems.  Good 
bye,  my  dearest  Friend. 

A.   GILCHRIST. 


128 


LETTER     XXVIII 

ANNE    GILCHRIST   TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

Address 

i  Torriano  Gardens  Earls  Colne 

CamdenRoad,  N.  W.  /%.  28,  1875. 

London 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

Your  letter  came  to  me  just  when  I  most  needed  the  com 
fort  of  it — when  I  was  watching  and  tending  my  dear  Mother 
as  she  gently,  slowly,  with  but  little  suffering,  sank  to  rest. 
There  was  no  sick  bed  to  sit  by — we  got  her  up  and  out  into 
the  air  and  sunshine  for  an  hour  or  two  even  the  day  before 
she  died — No  disease,  only  the  stomach  could  not  do  its 
work  any  longer  &  for  the  last  three  weeks  she  lived  wholly  on 
stimulants,  suffering  somewhat  from  sickness.  She  drew 
her  last  breath  very  gently  before  daybreak  on  the  i5th 
inst.,  in  her  9Oth  year,  which  she  had  entered  in  Jan.  She 
looked  very  beautiful  in  death,  notwithstanding  her  great  age 
— as  well  she  might — tranquil  sunset  that  it  was  of  a  beautiful 
day — a  fulfilled  life — joy  &  delight  of  her  father  in  youth 
(who  used  to  call  her  the  apple  of  his  eye),  good  wife,  devoted, 
self-sacrificing,  wise  mother — patient,  courageous  sufferer 
through  thirty  years  of  chronic  rheumatism,  which,  however, 
neutralized  &  ceased  its  pains  the  last  few  years — unsur 
passed,  &  indeed  I  think  unsurpassable,  in  conscientious 
ness — in  the  strong  sense  of  duty  &  perfect  obedience  to  that 
highest  sense — she  is  one  of  those  who  amply  justify  your 
large  faith  in  women. 

129 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

I  do  not  need  to  tell  you  anything,  my  dearest  friend — you 
know  all — I  feel  your  strong  comforting  hand — I  press  it 
very  close. 

I  had  all  my  children  with  me  at  the  funeral. 

O  the  comfort  your  dear  letter  was  &  is  to  me.  Thinking 
over  &  over  the  few  words  you  say  of  yourself — &  what  is 
said  in  the  paper  (so  eagerly  read — every  word  so  welcome) 
I  cannot  help  fancying  that  the  return  of  the  distressing 
sensations  in  the  head  must  be  caused  by  your  having  worked 
at  the  book— the  "Two  Rivulets"  (I  dearly  like  the  title  & 
the  idea  of  bringing  the  Poems  &  Prose  together  so) — that 
you  must  be  more  patient  with  yourself  and  submit  still  to 
perfect  rest — &  that  perhaps  in  regard  to  the  stomach — you 
have  not  enough  adapted  your  diet  to  the  privation  of 
exercise — that  you  must  be  more  indulgent  to  the  stomach 
too  in  the  sense  of  giving  it  only  the  very  easiest  &  simplest 
work  to  do.  My  children  join  their  love  with  mine. 

Your  own  loving 

ANNE. 


130 


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132 


LETTER     XXIX 

ANNE    GILCHRIST   TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

i  Toniano  Gardens 
Camden  Rd.,  Nov.  16,  1875. 
London 

I  have  been  wanting  the  comfort  of  a  talk  with  you,  dearest 
Friend,  for  weeks  &  weeks,  without  being  able  to  get  leisure 
&  tranquillity  enough  to  do  it  to  my  heart's  content — indeed, 
heart's  content  is  not  for  me  at  present — but  restless,  eager, 
longing  to  come — &  the  struggle  to  do  patiently  &  completely 
&  wisely  what  remains  for  me  here  before  I  am  free  to  obey  the 
deep  faith  and  love  which  govern  me — so  let  me  sit  close 
beside  you,  my  Darling — &  feel  your  presence  &  take  com 
fort  &  strength  &  serenity  from  it  as  I  do,  as  I  can  when  with 
all  my  heart  &  soul  I  draw  close  to  you,  realizing  your  living 
presence  with  all  my  might. — First,  about  Percy — things 
are  beginning  to  look  a  little  brighter  for  him.  He  is  just 
entering  upon  a  new  engagement  with  some  very  large  & 
successful  works — the  Blenavon  Iron  Co. — where,  though  his 
salary  will  not  be  higher  at  first,  his  opportunities  of  improve 
ment  will  be  better  &  he  is  also  to  be  allowed  to  take  private 
practice  (in  assaying  &  analyzing).  The  manager  there 
believes  in  Science  &  is  friendly  to  Percy  &  will  give  him 
every  facility  for  showing  what  he  can  do,  so  that  he  hopes  to 
prove  to  the  Directors  before  long  that  he  is  worth  a  good 
salary.  The  parents  of  Norah  (whom  he  loves)  have  released 
from  their  unfriendly  attitude  since  my  Beatrice  has  been 
staying  with  them;  the  two  girls  have  attached  themselves 

133 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

to  one  another  &  Per.  has  had  delightful  opportunities  of 
being  with  Norah,  &  best  of  all,  she  is  to  return  here  with 
Beatrice  (they  are  coming  to-morrow),  &  Per.  is  to  have  a 
week's  holiday  &  come  up,  so  that  he  &  Norah  will  be  wholly 
together  &  have,  I  suspect,  the  happiest  week  they  have 
yet  had  in  their  lives.  Then  I  have  stored  away  for  them  the 
furniture  of  the  dear  old  home  at  Colne,  &  I  really  think  that 
by  the  time  '76  is  out  they  will  be  able  to  marry.  I  see,  and 
indeed  I  have  known  ever  since  he  formed  this  attachment, 
that  I  must  not  look  for  him  to  come  to  America  with  me. 
But  what  I  build  upon,  Dearest  Friend,  is  that  when  I  have 
been  a  little  while  in  America  &  have  made  friends  &  had  time 
to  look  about  me  I  might  hear  of  a  good  certainty  for  him — 
his  excellent  training  at  the  School  of  Mines,  large  experience 
at  Blenavon,  energy,  ability,  &  sturdy  uprightness  will  make 
him  a  first-rate  manager  of  works  by  &  bye.  But  the  leaving 
him  so  happy  with  his  young  wife  will  make  it  easier  for  us 
to  part.  Nov.  26 — Beatrice  has  begun  to  work  at  anatomy 
at  the  School  of  Medicine  for  Women  lately  founded,  &  seems 
to  delight  in  her  work.  She  will  not  enter  on  the  full  course 
all  at  once — I  am  for  taking  things  gently.  Women  have 
plenty  of  strength  but  it  is  of  a  different  kind  from  men's  & 
must  work  by  gentler  &  slower  means — Above  all  I  do  not 
like  what  pushes  violently  aside  domestic  duties  &  pleasures. 
The  special  work  must  combine  itself  with  these;  I  am  sure 
it  can.  Herby  is  getting  on  very  nicely — never  did  student 
love  his  work  better.  He  is  eager,  &  by  making  the  best  use 
of  present  opportunities  &  advantages  yet  looking  towards 
America  full  of  cheerful  hopes  &  sympathy.  Grace  is  less 
developed  in  intellect  but  not  less  in  character  than  the 
others.  I  can't  describe  her  but  send  you  her  photograph. 
There  is  a  freshness  &  independence  of  character  about 
her — yet  withal  a  certain  waywardness  &  reserve.  She  is  a 
good,  instinctive  judge  of  character — more  influenced  by 

134 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

it  than  by  books — yet  with  a  growing  taste  for  them  too. 
She  comes  to  America  with  a  gay  and  buoyant  curiosity, 
declining  to  make  up  her  mind  about  anything  till  she  gets 
there.  We  want,  as  far  as  possible,  to  transplant  our  home 
bodily — to  bring  as  much  as  we  can  of  our  own  furniture 
because  we  have  beautiful  old  things  precious  in  Herby's 
eyes  &  that  we  are  all  fond  of.  And  [by]  coming  straight  to 
Philadelphia  &  taking  a  house  somewhere  on  the  outskirts  of 
it  or  Camden  immediately  we  fancy  this  might  be  prac 
ticable,  but  have  not  yet  launched  into  the  matter.  I  have 
just  heard  from  Mr.  Rossetti,  and  also  from  Mrs.  Conway  of 
her  husband  having  seen  you,  &  if  his  report  be  not  too  san 
guine  it  is  a  cheering  one  &  would  comfort  me  much,  dearest 
Friend.  But  what  he  says  is  so  favourable  I  am  afraid  to 
believe  it  altogether,  knowing  that  you  would  make  the 
very  best  of  yourself  &  indeed  be  probably  at  your  best  with 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  an  old  friend  fresh  from  England. 
Nov.  30.  And  now,  dear  Friend,  I  have  had  a  very  great 
pleasure  indeed,  thanks  to  you — a  visit  from  Mr.  Marvin — & 
I  hope  to  have  another  when  he  returns  from  Paris.  And  the 
account  he  gives  of  you  is  so  cheerful — so  vivid — it  seems  to 
part  asunder  a  gloomy  cloud  that  was  brooding  in  my  mind. 
And  though  I  know  that  for  the  short  hours  that  you  feel 
bright  &  well  are  many  long  hours  when  you  are  far  other 
wise,  still  I  feel  sure  those  short  hours  are  the  earnest  of 
perfect  recovery — with  a  fine  patience — boundless  patience. 
And  now  I  can  picture  you  sitting  in  your  favourite  window, 
having  a  friendly  word  with  passers-by — &  feel  quite  sure 
that  you  are  happy  &  comfortable  in  your  surroundings. 
And  a  great  deal  else  full  of  interest  Mr.  Marvin  told  me.  I 
was  loth  for  him  to  go,  but  one  hour  is  so  small,  we  have 
noticed,  for  a  friend,  I  am  sorry  to  say. 

William  Rossetti  has  a  little  girl  which  is  a  great  delight 
to  him.    Miss  Hillard  of  Brooklyn  has  also  paid  me  a  visit 

135 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

&  spoken  to  me  of  you.  She  charmed  me  much — only  I 
felt  a  little  cross  with  her  for  giving  Herby  such  a  dismal 
account  of  his  chances  as  an  artist  in  America.  However,  we 
both  refused  to  be  discouraged,  for  after  all  he  can  send 
his  pictures  to  England  to  be  established  &c.,  having  plenty 
of  friends  who  would  see  to  it;  &  we  are  both  firm  in  the  faith 
that  if  you  can  only  paint  the  really  good  pictures  the  rest 
will  take  care  of  itself,  somehow  or  other — &  that  can  be 
done  as  well  in  America  as  in  England,  but  of  course  he  must 
finish  his  training  here. 

With  best  love  from  us  all,  good-bye,  my  dearest  Friend. 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 


LETTER     XXX 

ANNE    GILCHRIST   TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

i  Torriano  Gardens 
Camden  Rd.,  London 

Dec.  4,  1875. 

Though  it  is  but  a  few  days  since  I  posted  a  letter,  my 
dearest  friend,  I  must  write  you  again — because  I  cannot 
help  it,  my  heart  is  so  full — so  full  of  love  &  sorrow  &  struggle. 
The  day  before  yesterday  I  saw  Mr.  Conway's  printed 
account  of  you,  &  instead  of  the  cheerful  report  I  had  been 
told  of,  he  speaks  of  your  having  given  up  hope  of  recovery. 
Those  words  were  like  a  sharp  knife  plunged  into  me — they 
choked  me  with  bitter  tears.  Don't  give  up  that  hope  for  the 
sake  of  those  that  so  tenderly,  passionately,  love  you — would 
give  their  lives  with  joy  for  you.  Why,  who  knows  better 
than  you  how  much  hope  &  the  will  have  to  do  with  it,  &  I 
know  quite  well  that  the  belief  does  not  depress  you — that 
you  are  ready  to  accept  either  lot  with  calmness,  cheerfulness, 
perfect  faith,  perhaps  with  equal  joy.  But  for  all  that,  it 
does  you  harm.  Ideas  always  have  a  tendency  to  accomplish 
themselves.  And  what  right  have  the  Doctors  to  utter 
gloomy  prophecies?  The  wisest  of  them  know  the  best  how 
profoundly  in  the  dark  they  are  as  to  much  that  goes  on  within 
us,  especially  in  maladies  like  yours.  O  cling  to  life  with  a 
resolute  hold,  my  beloved,  to  bless  us  with  your  presence 
unspeakably  dear,  beneficent  presence — me  to  taste  of  it 
before  so  very  long  now — thirsting,  pining,  loving  me. 
Take  through  these  poor  words  of  mine  some  breath  of  the 

'37 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

tender,  tender,  ineffable  love  that  fills  my  heart  and  soul  and 
body — take  of  it  to  strengthen  the  very  springs  of  your  life: 
it  is  capable  of  that;  O  its  cherishing  warmth  and  joy,  if  it 
could  only  get  to  you,  only  fold  you  round  close  enough, 
would  help,  I  know.  Soon,  soon  as  ever  my  boy  has  one  to 
love  &  care  for  him  all  his  own,  I  will  come;  I  may  not  before, 
not  if  it  should  break  my  heart  to  stop  away  from  you,  for 
his  welfare  is  my  sacred  charge  &  nearer  &  dearer  than  all 
to  me.  Verily,  my  God,  strengthen  me,  comfort  me,  stay 
for  me — let  that  have  a  little  beginning  on  this  dear  earth 
which  is  for  all  eternity,  which  will  live  &  grow  immortally 
into  a  diviner  reality  than  the  heart  of  man  has  conceived. 

I  am  well  satisfied  with  Norah,  dear  Friend.  She  is  very 
affectionate,  loveable,  prudent,  &  clear  in  all  practical  mat 
ters,  well  suited  to  Percy  in  tastes,  &c. 

Your  own 

ANNIE. 


•38 


ANNE   GILCHRIST  TO   WALT  WHITMAN 

LETTER     XXXI 

Blaenavon 

Rout^pool 

Mon.   England 

Jan.  1 8,  '76. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

Do  not  think  me  too  wilful  or  headstrong,  but  I  have  taken 
our  tickets  &  we  shall  sail  Aug.  30  for  Philadelphia.  I  found 
if  I  did  not  come  to  a  decision  now,  we  could  not  well  arrange 
it  before  next  summer.  And  since  we  have  come  to  a  deci 
sion  my  mind  has  been  quite  at  rest.  Do  not  feel  any  anxiety 
or  misgivings  about  us.  I  have  a  clear  and  strong  con 
viction  I  am  doing  what  is  right  &  best  for  us  all.  After  a 
busy  anxious  time  I  am  having  a  week  or  two  of  rest  with 
Percy,  who  I  find  fairly  well  in  health  &  prospering  in  his 
business — indeed,  he  bids  fair  to  have  a  large  private  practice 
as  an  analyst  here,  &  is  already  making  income  enough  to 
marry  on,  only  there  is  to  build  the  nest — &  I  think  he  will 
have  actually  to  build  it,  for  there  seem  no  eligible  houses — 
&  to  furnish — so  that  the  wedding  will  not  be  till  next  spring 
or  early  summer.  Nevertheless,  with  a  definite  goal  &  a  defi 
nite  time  &  the  way  between  not  so  very  rugged,  though 
rather  dull  and  lonely,  I  think  he  will  be  pretty  cheery.  This 
little  town  (of  1 1 ,000  inhabitants,  all  miners,  smelters  &c.) 
lies  up  among  the  hills  1 100  ft.  above  the  sea — glorious  hills 
here,  spreading,  then  converging,  with  wooded  flanks,  &  swift 
brooklets  leaping  over  stones  in  the  hollows — the  air,  too,  of 

139 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

course  deliriously  light  &  pure.  I  have  heard  through  a 
friend  of  ours  of  Bee's  fellow  student  who  lives  in  Camden 
(Mr.Suerkrop,  I  think  his  name  is)  that  we  shall  be  able  to  get 
a  very  comfortable  home  with  pleasant  garden  there  for 
about  £55  per  an.  I  think  I  can  manage  that  very  well — so 
all  1  need  is  to  hear  of  a  comfortable  lodging  or  boarding  house 
(the  former  preferred)  where  we  can  be,  avoiding  hotels  even 
while  we  hunt  for  the  house.  I  have  arranged  for  my  goods  to 
sail  a  week  later  than  we  do,  so  as  to  give  us  time. 
Good-bye  for  a  short  while,  my  dearest  Friend. 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 

Bee  has  obtained  a  very  satisfactory  account  of  the  Women's 
Medical  College  in  Philadelphia  &  introductions  to  the 
Head,&c. 


140 


LETTER   XXXII 

ANNE   GILCHRIST  TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

I  Torriano  Gardens 

Camden  Rd. 

London 
Feb.  25,  '76. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

I  received  the  paper  &  enclosed  slip  Saturday  week,  filling 
me  so  full  of  emotion  I  could  not  write,  for  I  am  too  bitterly 
impatient  of  mere  words.  Soon,  very  soon,  I  come,  my  dar 
ling.  I  am  not  lingering,  but  held  yet  a  little  while  by  the 
firm  grip  of  conscience — this  is  the  last  spring  we  shall  be 
asunder — O  I  passionately  believe  there  are  years  in  store 
for  us,  years  of  tranquil,  tender  happiness — me  making  your 
outward  life  serene  &  sweet — you  making  my  inward  life 
so  rich — me  learning,  growing,  loving — we  shedding  benign 
influences  round  us  out  of  our  happiness  and  fulfilled  life — 
Hold  on  but  a  little  longer  for  me,  my  Walt — I  am  straining 
every  nerve  to  hasten  the  day — I  have  enough  for  us  all  ( with 
the  simple,  unpretending  ways  we  both  love  best). 

Percy  is  battling  slowly — doing  as  well  as  we  could'expect 
in  the  time.  I  think  he  will  soon  build  the  nest  for  his  mate. 
I  think  he  never  in  his  heart  believed  I  really  should  go  to 
America,  and  so  it  comes  as  a  great  blow  to  him  now. 
You  must  be  very  indulgent  towards  him  for  my  sake,  dear 
friend. 

I  am  glad  we  know  about  those  rascally  book  agents — for 
many  of  us  are  wanting  a  goodish  number  of  copies  of  the 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

new  edition  &  it  is  important  to  understand  we  may  have 
them  straight  from  you.  Rossetti  is  making  a  list  of  the 
friends  &  the  number,  so  that  they  may  all  come  together. 

Perhaps,  dearest  friend,  you  may  be  having  a  great  diffi 
culty  in  getting  the  books  out  for  want  of  funds — if  so,  let 
me  help  a  little — show  your  trust  in  me  and  my  love  thus 
generously. 

Your  own  loving 

ANNIE. 


142 


LETTER     XXXIII 

ANNE    GILCHRIST  TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

I  Torriano  Gardens 

March  n,  '76. 

I  have  had  such  joy  this  morning,  my  Darling — Poems  of 
yours  given  in  the  Daily  News — sublime  Poems  one  of 
them  reaching  dizzy  heights,  filling  my  soul  with  strong 
delight.  These  prefaced  by  a  few  words,  timid  enough  yet 
kindly  in  tone,  &  better  than  nothing.  The  days,  the  weeks, 
are  slipping  by,  my  beloved,  bearing  me  swiftly,  surely  to 
you — before  the  beauty  of  the  year  begins  to  fade  we  shall 
come.  The  young  folk  too  are  full  of  bright  anticipation  & 
eagerness  now,  I  am  thankful  to  say;  and  Percy  getting  on 
with,  I  trust,  such  near  &  definite  prospect  of  his  happiness 
that  he  will  be  able  to  pull  along  cheerily  towards  it  after  we 
are  gone,  in  spite  of  loneliness. 

I  expect,  Darling,  we  must  go  to  some  little  town  or  village 
ten  or  twenty  miles  short  of  Philadelphia  till  the  tremendous 
influx  of  visitors  to  the  Centennial  has  ceased,  else  we  shall 
not  be  able  to  find  a  corner  there. — By  the  bye,  I  feel  a  little 
sulky  at  your  always  taking  a  fling  at  the  poor  piano.  I  see 
I  have  got  to  try  &  show  you  it  too  is  capable  of  waking  deep 
chords  in  the  human  soul  when  it  is  the  vehicle  of  a  great 
master's  thought  &  emotions — if  only  my  poor  fingers  prove 
equal  to  the  task!  (All  my  heart  shall  go  into  them.)  Take 
from  my  picture  a  long,  long  look  of  tender  love  and  joy  and 

143 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

faith,  deathless,  ever  young,  ever  growing,  ever  learning, 
aspiring  love,  tender,  cherishing,  domestic  love. 

Oh,  may  I  be  full  of  sweet  comfort  for  my  Beloved's  Soul 
and  Body  through  life,  through  and  after  death. 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 


144 


LETTER     XXXIV 

WALT   WHITMAN   TO   ANNE    GILCHRIST 

Camden,  New  Jersey 

March,  1876. 
DEAREST  FRIEND: 

To  your  good  &  comforting  letter  of  Feb.  25th  I  at  once 
answer,  at  least  with  a  few  lines.  I  have  already  written 
this  morning  a  pretty  full  letter  to  Mr.  Rossetti  (to  answer 
one  just  rec'd  from  him)  &  requested  him  to  loan  it  you  for 
perusal.  In  that  I  have  described  my  situation  fully  & 
candidly. 

My  new  edition  is  printed  &  ready.  Upon  receipt  of  your 
letter  I  sent  you  a  set,  two  Vols.  (by  Mail,  March  15)  which 
you  must  have  rec'd  by  this  time.  I  wish  you  to  send  me 
word  soon  as  they  arrive. 

My  health,  I  am  encouraged  to  think,  is  perhaps  a  shade 
better — certainly  as  well  as  any  time  of  late. 

I  even  already  vaguely  contemplate  plans  (they  may 
never  be  fulfilled,  but  yet  again  they  may)  of  changes,  jour 
neys — even  of  coming  to  London  &  seeing  you,  visiting  my 
friends,  &c.  My  dearest  friend,  /  do  not  approve  your 
American  trans-settlement.  I  see  so  many  things  here  you  have 
no  idea  of — the  social,  and  almost  every  other  kind  of  crudeness, 
meagreness,  here  (at  least  in  appearance). 

Don't  do  anything  towards  it  nor  resolve  in  it  nor  make 
any  move  at  all  in  it  without  further  advice  from  me.  If  I 
should  get  well  enough  to  voyage,  we  will  talk  about  it  yet  in 
London. 

'45 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

You  must  not  be  uneasy  about  me- -dearest  friend,  I  get 
along  much  better  than  you  think  for.  As  to  the  literary 
situation  here,  my  rejection  by  the  coteries  and  the  poverty 
(which  is  the  least  of  my  troubles),  am  not  sure  but  I  enjoy 
them  all— besides,  as  to  the  latter,  I  am  not  in  want. 


146 


LETTER     XXXV 

ANNE   GILCHRIST   TO.  WALT   WHITMAN 

i  Torriano  Gardens 
Camden  Rd.,  London 

March  30,  '76. 

Yesterday  was  a  day  for  me,  dearest  Friend.  In  the  morn 
ing  your  letter,  strong,  cheerful,  reassuring — dear  letter. 
In  the  afternoon  the  books.  I  don't  know  how  to  settle 
down  my  thoughts  calmly  enough  to  write,  nor  how  to  lay 
down  the  books  (with  delicate  yet  serviceable  exterior,  with 
inscription  making  me  so  proud,  so  joyous).  But  there  are  a 
few  things  I  want  to  say  to  you  at  once  in  regard  to  our  com 
ing  to  America.  I  will  not  act  without  "further  advice  from 
you";  but  as  to  not  resolving  on  it,  dear  friend,  I  can't 
exactly  obey  that,  for  it  has  been  my  settled,  steady  purpose 
(resting  on  a  deep,  strong  faith)  ever  since  1869.  Nor  do  I 
feel  discouraged  or  surprised  at  what  you  say  of  American 
"crudeness,"  &c.  (of  which,  in  truth,  one  hears  not  a  little  in 
England).  I  have  not  shut  my  eyes  to  the  difficulties  and 
trials  &  responsibilities  (for  the  children's  sake)  of  the 
enterprise.  I  am  not  urged  on  by  any  discontent  with  old 
England  or  by  any  adverse  circumstances  here  which  I  might 
hope  to  better  there:  my  reasons,  emotions,  the  sources  of  my 
strength  and  courage  for  the  uprooting  &  transplanting — all 
are  inclosed  in  those  two  volumes  that  lie  before  me  on  the 
table.  That  America  has  brought  them  forth  makes  me 
want  to  plant  some,  at  least,  of  my  children  on  her  soil.  I 
understand  &  believe  in  &  love  her  in  &  through  them.  They 

H7 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

teach  me  to  look  beneath  the  surface  &  to  get  hints  of  the 
great  future  that  is  shaping  itself  out  of  the  crude  present,  & 
I  believe  we  shall  prove  to  be  of  the  right  sort  to  plant  down 
there.— O  to  talk  it  all  over  with  you,  dearest  Friend,  here  in 
London  first;  I  feel  as  if  that  would  really  be — the  joy,  the 
comfort,  of  that.  I  cannot  finish  this  to-day  but  send  what 
I  have  written  without  delay  that  you  may  know  of  the  safe 
arrival  of  the  books.  With  reverent,  grateful  love  from  us 
all. 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 


148 


LETTER    XXXVI 
ANNE    GILCHRIST    TO    WALT    WHITMAN 

I  Torriano  Gardens 
Camden  Rd.  London 

April  21,  1876. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

I  must  write  again,  out  of  a  full  heart.  For  the  reading 
of  this  book,  "  The  Two  Rivulets,"  has  filled  it  very  full. 
Ever  the  deep  inward  assent,  rising  up  strong,  exultant 
my  immortal  self  recognizing,  responding  to  your  immortal 
self.  Ever  the  sense  of  dearness,  the  sweet,  subtle  perfume, 
pervading  every  page,  every  line,  to  my  sense — O  I  cannot 
put  into  any  words  what  I  perceive  nor  what  answering  emo 
tion  pervades  me,  flows  out  towards  you — sweetest,  deepest, 
greatest  experience  of  my  life — what  I  was  made  for — surely 
I  was  made  as  the  soil  in  which  the  precious  seed  of  your 
thoughts  &  emotions  should  be  planted — try  to  fulfil  them 
selves  in  me,  that  I  might  by  &  bye  blossom  into  beauty  & 
bring  forth  rich  fruits — immortal  fruits.  So  no  doubt 
other  women  feel,  and  future  women  will. 

Do  not  dissuade  me  from  coming  this  autumn,  my  dearest 
Friend.  I  have  waited  patiently — 7  years — patiently,  yet 
often,  especially  since  your  illness,  with  such  painful  yearning 
your  heart  would  yearn  towards  me  if  you  realized  it — I  can 
not  wait  any  longer.  Nor  ought  I  to — that  would  indeed  be 
sacrificing  the  prudence  that  concerns  itself  with  immortal 
things  to  the  prudence  that  concerns  itself  only  with  tempo 
rary  ones.  But,  indeed,  even  so  far  as  this  latter  is  con- 

149 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

cerned,  there  is  no  sacrifice  for  any.  It  is  by  far  the  best 
step,  for  instance,  I  could  take  on  Beatrice's  account.  She 
is  heartily  in  earnest  in  her  medical  studies.  I  am  persuaded, 
too,  it  is  a  splendid  training  for  her  whether  or  no  she  ever 
makes  a  money-earning  profession  of  it.  And  in  England 
women  have  at  present  no  means  of  obtaining  a  complete 
medical  education.  They  cannot  get  admission  to  any 
Hospital  for  the  clinical  part  of  the  course.  So  that  she  is 
exceedingly  anxious  to  come  where  it  is  possible  for  her  to 
follow  out  her  aims  effectually.  Then,  I  am  confident  she 
will  find  America  congenial  to  her — that  she  is  in  her  essential 
nature  democratic — &  that  she  has  the  intelligence,  the 
sympathies,  earnestness,  affectionateness,  unconventionality 
needed  to  pierce  through  appearances  surface  "crudeness" 
&  see  &  love  the  great  reality  unfolding  below.  So  I  believe 
has  Herby.  Then  an  artist  is  as  free  as  an  author  to  work 
where  he  pleases  &  reaps  as  much  from  fresh  and  widened 
experiences.  He  does  not  contemplate  cutting  himself  off 
from  England — will  exhibit  here — very  likely  take  a  studio 
in  London  for  a  season,  a  couple  of  years  hence  to  work  among 
old  friends  &  associations  &  so  have  double  chance  &  oppor 
tunities.  Then  above  all,  dearest  friend,  they  too  see 
America  in  &  through  you — they  too  would  fain  be  near  you. 
Have  no  anxiety  or  misgivings  for  us.  Let  us  come  &  be  near 
you — &  see  if  we  are  made  of  trn  right  sort  of  stuff  for  trans 
planting  to  American  soil.  Only  advise  us  where.  If  it  be 
Philadelphia  (which  as  far  as  offering  facilities  for  Beatrice 
would,  as  far  as  I  can  learn,  suit  us  very  well).  We  must  not 
come,  I  think,  till  the  end  of  October,  because  of  its  being  so 
full.  Perhaps  indeed,  dearest  Friend  (but  dare  not  build  on 
it)  we  shall  talk  this  over  in  England.  If  you  are  able  to 
take  the  journey,  it  might,  and  would,  be  sure  to  do  you  good 
as  well  as  to  rejoice  the  hearts  of  English  friends.  But  if  not, 
if  we  are  not  able  to  talk  over  our  coming,  do  not  feel  the 

150 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

least  anxious  about  us.  We  shall  light  on  our  feet  &  do  very 
well.  Percy  seems  getting  on  fairly  well,  considering  what 
a  bad  time  it  is  in  his  line  of  business.  I  think  he  will  be 
able  to  marry  this  autumn  or  following  winter.  I  shall  go 
and  spend  a  month  with  him  in  July.  Perhaps,  indeed,  if, 
as  many  are  prophecying,  the  iron  trade  does  not  recover  its 
old  pre-eminence  here,  he  may  be  glad  by  &  bye  that  I  have 
gone  over  to  America  &  opened  a  way  for  him.  But  if  he 
does  not  follow  me  then,  if  I  live,  I  hope  to  spend  a  few 
months  with  him  every  three  or  four  years,  instead  of  as  now 
a  few  weeks  once  a  year.  Anyhow  we  have  to  live  widely 
apart.  Thanks  for  the  papers  just  received.  Specially 
welcome  the  account  of  some  stranger's  interview  with  you — 
for  me  too  before  very  long  now  the  joy  of  hearing  the  "  strong 
musical  voice"  read  the  "  Wound  Dresser  "  or  speak. 

I  have  happy  thoughts  for  my  companions  all  day  long, 
helping  me  over  every  difficulty — strengthening  me.  Good 
bye,  dearest  Friend .  Love  from  us  all. 

A.  GILCHRIST. 


LETTER     XXXVII 
ANNE   GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 

i  Torriano  Gardens 
Camden  Rd.,  London 

May  1 8,  1876. 

Just  a  line  of  birthday  greeting,  my  dearest  Friend.  May 
it  find  you  enjoying  the  beautiful  spring-time  &  the  grand 
sights  of  people  &  products  &  the  music  at  Philadelphia,  not 
withstanding  drawbacks  (but  lessening  drawbacks,  I  ear 
nestly  hope)  of  health,  lameness.  Rejoiced,  too,  perhaps 
with  the  sight  of  many  dear  old  friends  occasion  has  brought 
to  your  city.  May  all  that  will  do  you  good  come,  my  dear 
est  Friend.  And  not  least  the  sense  of  relief  &  joy  in  having 
fulfilled  the  great  task,  in  the  teeth  of  such  difficulties  re 
launched  safely,  more  fully,  richly  equipt,  the  ship  to  sail 
down  the  great  ocean  of  Time,  bearing  precious,  precious 
freight  of  seed  to  be  planted  in  countless  successions  of 
human  souls,  helping  forward  more  than  even  the  best 
lovers  of  your  poems  dream,  the  great  future  of  humanity. 
That  is  what  I  believe  as  surely  as  I  believe  in  my  own  exis 
tence. 

The  "low  star,"  the  great  star  drooping  low  in  the  west, 
has  been  unusually  resplendent  of  a  night  here  lately  &  by 
day  lilacs  &  the  labernums  wonderfully  brightening  dear  old 
smoky  London,  constant  reminders  all,  if  I  needed  any,  of  the 
Poet  &  the  Poems,  so  dear  to  me. 

If  I  do  not  hear  from  you  to  the  contrary  I  am  to  take  our 
passage  by  one  of  the  "States"  Line  of  Steamers  that  come 

152 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

straight  to  Philadelphia  sailing  about  the  ist  Sept. — £  I  am 
told  one  ought  to  secure  one's  cabin  a  couple  of  months  or  so 
beforehand.  But  if  there  be  indeed  an  increasing  hope  of 
your  coming  here  in  the  course  of  the  summer,  or  if  you 
think  it  would  be  best  for  us  to  go  to  New  York  (only  I  want 
to  go  at  once  where  we  are  likely  to  stop,  because  of  my 
furniture) ,  let  me  hear  as  soon'as  may  be,  dear  Friend.  Look 
ing  at  it  purely  as  concerns  the  young  ones,  for  some  reasons 
it  is  very  desirable  to  come  this  year  &  for  others  to  wait  till 
next.  With  Bee,  for  instance,  we  are  both  losing  time  & 
wasting  money  by  going  over  another  winter  here  when  there 
is  no  complete  &  satisfactory  medical  course  to  be  had. 
Then  as  regards  dear  Percy,  he  writes  me  now  that  though  he 
is  doing  fairly  well,  he  does  not  think  he  will  be  able  to  take  a 
house  &  marry  till  next  summer — &  that  I  am  very  sorry  for. 
But  then  I  think  that  as  I  could  not  be  with  him  nor  help 
him  forward,  the  balance  goes  down  on  Beatrice's  side,  if  I 
am  able  to  accomplish  it. 

Good-bye,  my  dearest  Friend.  Loving,  tender  thoughts 
shall  I  send  you  on  the  3oth.  Solemn  thoughts  outleaping 
life,  immortal  aspirations  of  my  soul  toward  your  soul. 
The  children's  love  too,  please,  dearest  Friend. 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 


'53 


LETTER     XXXVIII 

ANNE    GILCHRIST  TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

Round  Hill,  Northampton,  Mass. 

Monday,  Sept.,  '77. 
DEAREST  FRIEND: 

I  have  had  joyful  news  to-day!  Percy's  wife  has  a  fine 
little  boy — it  was  born  on  the  loth,  and  Norah  got  through 
well  &  is  doing  nicely;  so  I  feel  very  happy. 

Since  then  Per.  has  gone  to  Paris  where  he  is  to  read  a  paper 
before  the  "  Iron  and  Steel  Institute"  on  the  Elimination  of 
phosphorus  from  Iron — which  is  also  a  little  triumph  of 
another  kind  for  him — for  the  Council  which  accepted  his 
paper  is  composed  of  eminent  English  scientists,  &  eminent 
foreign  ones  will  hear  it. —  I  need  not  tell  you  it  is  inde 
scribably  lovely  here  now — no  doubt  Kirkwood  is  the  same — 
the  light  so  brilliant,  and  yet  soft — the  rich  autumn  tints 
just  beginning  to  appear — the  temperature  delicious — crisp 
&  bracing,  yet  genial. 

The  throng  of  people  is  gone — but  a  few  of  the  pleasantest 
of  the  old  set  remain — &  a  few  interesting  new  ones  have 
come! — among  them  Mrs.  Dexter  from  Boston,  who  was  a 
Miss  Ticnor,  daughter  of  the  author  of  the  book  on  Spanish 
literature — she  and  her  husband  full  of  interesting  talk.  Also 

Mr.  Martin  B and  his  wife — a  fine  specimen  of  a  leading 

Bostonian.  Besides  these  also  a  physician  from  Florida 
whom  I  much  admire — with  a  beautiful  firm  tenor  voice — 
very  handsome  &  graceful  too,  a  true  southerner,  I  should 
say — (but  of  Scotch  extraction). 

154 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

Next  week  we  go  to  Boston. 

I  went  over  the  Lunatic  Asylum  here  the  other  day  &  saw 
some  strange,  sad  sights — some  figures  crouched  down  in 
attitudes  of  such  profound  dejection  I  shall  never  forget 
them — some  very  bright  and  talkative.  It  is  said  to  be  the 
best  managed  in  America.  Dr.  Earle,  who  is  at  the  head,  is 
a  man  of  splendid  capacity  for  the  post — a  noble-looking  old 
man  (uncle  of  those  Miss  Chases  you  met  at  our  house). 

I  can't  settle  to  anything  or  think  of  any  thing  since  I 
received  Percy's  letter  but  the  baby  &  Norah.  Love  to  you 
&  to  Mrs.  Whitman1  &  Hattie2  &  Jessie.3 

Good-bye,  dear  Friend. 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 

>Mrs.  George  Whitman. 

*Sister. 

'Niece. 


155 


LETTER     XXXIX 

BEATRICE        GILCHRIST       TO       WALT 
WHITMAN 

New  England  Hospital 

Codman  Avenue 
Boston  Highlands 
DEAR  WALT: 

Hospital  life  is  beginning  to  seem  a  long-accustomed  life. 
I  enjoy  all  the  duties  involved  &  all  the  human  relations. 
Even  getting  up  in  the  night  is  compensated  for  by  yielding  a 
sense  of  importance  &  independence.  I  sleep  in  a  large 
room  with  three  windows,  &  three  beds  in  a  row.  Breakfast 
at  7,  &  we  are  supposed  to  have  seen  all  our  patients  before 
breakfast,  but  do  not  keep  to  that  rule. 

After  breakfast,  round  to  count  pulses  &  respirations,  note 
condition,  dress  any  wound,  in  charge,  etc.  At  J  past 
8  o'clock  go  the  rounds  with  the  resident  physician  (Dr. 
Berlin),  all  the  students,  &  superintendent  of  nurses.  Then 
put  up  medicine,  each  for  her  own  patients  (about  8  in  no.), 
give  electricity,  etc.  If  one's  patient  has  an  ache  or  pain, 
the  nurse  whistles  for  the  student  (my  whistle  is  2).  She 
sees  the  patient  orders  what  is  necessary,  or  if  serious  reports 
to  Dr.  Berlin.  Then  there  is  some  microscopic  work,  & 
copying  out  the  history  &  daily  record  of  the  case  &  making 
out  the  temperature  charts  more  than  fills  in  the  day.  At 
8  o'clock  we  all  in  conclave  report  about  our  patients  &  talk 
over  any  interesting  case.  One  of  my  patients  has  empyema 
following  pleurisy.  I  inject  into  her  chest  about  a  doz.  of  dif- 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

ferent  preparations.  Several  of  my  patients  (I  have  all  the 
very  sick  just  now)  require  very  careful  watching. 

In  the  evening  we  go  round  again  &  count  pulses  &  respira 
tions  &  note  temperatures.  If  a  very  sick  patient,  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  day;  also  take  pulse,  etc.  The  number  of  visits 
depending  on  the  need  &  the  competency  of  the  nurse.  I  like 
introducing  lint  into  wounds  (such  simple  ones  as  an  incised 
abscess  of  the  breast)  with  the  probe,  because  if  I  take 
trouble  enough  I  can  do  it  without  hurting  the  patient,  much 
to  the  patient's  surprise. 

The  other  day  Mr.  &  Mrs.  Marvin  called  to  see  me  with 
Mrs.  &  Miss  Callender — I  enjoyed  their  visit  much.  To 
day  Mr.  Marvin  drove  over  to  fetch  me  to  lunch,  &  I  had  a 
beautiful  drive  over  to  Dorchester;  in  the  afternoon  a  game 
of  lawn  tennis,  a  stroll  down  to  the  creek,  &  drive  home  by 
Forest  Hill  Cemetery  &  Jamaica  Pond.  The  air  was  fresh 
after  a  shower  &  golden-tinted,  &  the  drive  through  beautiful 
lanes  &  country.  All  were  friendly  &  it  was  refreshing  to 
emerge  from  the  little  hospital  world.  Mr.  Marvin's  cordial 
face  greeted  me  when  I  was  speaking  to  some  patients  in  ham 
mocks,  under  the  trees,  the  day  he  called,  much  to  my  surprise. 

I  was  to-day  feeling  the  need  of  a  little  change  of  air  & 
scene,  so  that  the  visit  was  most  opportune. 

Mr.  Morse1  is  working  away  desperately  at  the  bust  of  you; 
he  feels  as  if  he  would  get  on  famously  if  he  could  only  catch  a 
glimpse  of  you.  Now  might  not  you  come  to  Boston  on  your 
way  to  Chesterfield,  ride  up  in  the  open  horsecars  (a  very 
pleasant  ride)  to  see  me  also  and  give  Mr.  Morse  the  benefit 
of  a  sitting?  How  I  wish  we  could  get  Mrs.  Stafford  in 
here;  the  patients  get  most  excellent  care.  I  have  great 
confidence  in  Dr.  Berlin  &  in  the  attending  physician.  I 
do  not  want  her  to  come  for  a  month,  because  Dr.  Berlin 
has  just  gone  away  for  a  vacation. 

'Sidney  Morse,  the  sculptor. 

157 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

I  fear  no  mere  visiting  once  a  day  of  a  doctor  will  do  her 
any  good — she  needs  hygienic  treatment — massage  (a  woman 
works  here  every  day  on  the  patients  who  need  rubbing  & 
massage),  feeding  up  (I  have  never  yet  seen  a  patient  whom 
we  could  not  make  eat,  appetite  or  not,  by  aid  of  beef-tea  & 
milk),  perfect  rest,  &  judicious  treatment. 

Dr.  Berlin  is  a  learned,  charming  woman  of  28 — she  takes 
advanced  views,  gives  no  medicine  at  all  in  some  cases,  &  if 
any,  few  at  a  time,  but  efficient.  She  is  perfectly  unaffected, 
very  intelligent,  &  has  been  thoroughly  trained.  She  is  a 
Russian. 

Please  give  my  love  to  Mrs.  Whitman  &  remember  me  to 
Colonel  Whitman.  This  afternoon,  when  driving  with  Mr. 
Marvin,  I  thought  of  the  pleasant  drives  I  have  had  with 
Colonel  Whitman. 

Yours  affectionately, 

BEATRICE  C.  GILCHRIST. 

If  it  were  not  for  records  accumulating  mountain  high  I 
should  have  time  to  write  to  my  friends. 


158 


LETTER     XL 

ANNE    GILCHRIST  TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

I  am  half  Sept.  3,  '78. 

afraid  Herby  has  Chesterfield,  Mass. 

got  a  malarious 

place  by  his  description. 

MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

I  had  a  lingering  hope — till  Herby  went  south  again — that 
I  should  have  a  letter  from  you,  in  answer  to  mine,  saying 
you  were  coming  up  to  see  us  here.  In  truth,  it  was  a  great 
disappointment  to  me,  his  going  back  to  Philadelphia  instead 
of  your  joining  us,  or  him,  either  here  or  somewhere  near  to 
New  York.  I  wonder  where  that  North  Amboyna  is  that 
you  once  mentioned  to  me — and  what  kind  of  a  place  it  is. 
I  have  had  a  long,  quiet  time  here,  and  have  enjoyed  it  very 
much — never  did  I  breathe  such  sweet,  light,  pure  air  as  is 
always  blowing  freely  over  these  rocky  hills.  Rocky  as  they 
are — and  their  sides  &  ravines  are  strewn  with  huge  boulders 
of  every  conceivable  size  &  shape — they  nourish  an  abun 
dant  growth  of  woods,  and  I  fancy  the  farmers  here  do  a  great 
deal  better  with  their  winter  crops  of  lumber  and  bark  and 
maple  sugar  than  with  their  summer  one  of  grain  &  corn.  I 
expect  Herby  has  described  our  neighbours  to  you — specially 
Levi  Bryant,  the  father  of  my  hostess — a  farmer  who  lives 
just  opposite  and  has  put  such  heart  &  soul  and  muscle  & 
sinew  into  his  farming  that  he  has  continued  to  win  quite  a 
handsome  competence  from  this  barren  soil  (it  isn't  muscle 
&  industry  only  that  are  wanted  here — but  pluck  and  endur- 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

ance)  hauling  his  timber  up  &  down  over  the  snow  &  through 
the  drifts,  along  roads  that  are  pretty  nearly  vertical.  I  am 
never  tired  of  hearing  his  stories  (nor  he  of  telling  them)  of 
hairbreadth  escapes  for  him  &  his  cattle — when  the  harness 
or  the  shafts  have  broken  under  the  tremendous  strain — & 
nothing  but  coolness  &  daring  have  got  him  or  them  out  of  it 
alive.  Generally,  as  he  sits  talking,  his  little  boy  of  eleven 
who  bids  fair  to  be  like  him  and  can  now  manage  a  team  or  a 
yoke  of  oxen  as  well  as  any  man  in  the  parish — and  work 
almost  as  hard — sits  close  by  him  leaning  his  head  on  his 
father's  shoulder  or  breast — for  the  rugged  old  fellow  has  a 
vein  of  great  gentleness  and  affectionateness  in  him  &  I 
notice  the  child  nestles  up  to  him  always  rather  than  to  the 
mother — who  is  all  the  same  a  very  kind,  amiable,  good 
mother.  Then  there  are  neighbours  of  another  sort  up  at 
the  "Centre"— Mr.  Chadwick,  &c.,  from  New  York,  with 
whom  I  have  pleasant  chats  daily  when  I  trudge  up  to  fetch 
my  letters — now  &  then  I  get  a  delightful  drive  or  go  on  a 
blackberrying  party  with  the  folks  round — I  expect  Giddy 
over  to-day  &  we  shall  remain  here  together  for  about  a  fort 
night — then  back  to  Round  Hill — where  I  am  to  meet  the 
Miss  Chase  whom  you  may  remember  taking  tea  with  &  lik 
ing — then  on  to  Boston  to  see  dear  Bee — &  then  to  New  York, 
where  we  shall  meet  again  at  last,  I  hope  ere  long.  Love  to 
Mr.  &  Mrs.  Whitman — I  enjoy  her  letters.  Also  to  Hattie 
&  Jessie — who  will  hear  from  me  by  &  bye.  With  love  to 
you,  dear  Friend. 

Good-bye. 

A.  GILCHRIST. 


160 


LETTER     XLI 

A  N  N  E  G  I  LC  H  R  I  ST  TO    WALTWHITMAN 

Concord,  Mass. 

Oct.  25th. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

The  days  are  slipping  away  so  pleasantly  here  that  weeks 
are  gone  before  I  know  it.  The  Concord  folk  are  as  friendly 
as  they  are  intellectual,  and  there  is  really  no  end  to  the 
kindness  received.  We  are  rowed  on  the  beautiful  river 
every  day  that  it  is  warm  enough — a  very  winding  river  not 
much  broader  than  your  favourite  creek — flowing  sometimes 
through  level  meadows,  sometimes  round  rocky  promon 
tories  &  steep  wooded  hills  which,  with  their  wonderful 
autumn  tints,  are  like  a  gay  flower  border  mirrored  in  the 
water.  Never  in  my  life  have  I  enjoyed  outdoor  pleasures 
more — I  hardly  think,  so  much — enhanced  as  they  are  by 
the  companionship  of  very  lovable  men  and  women.  They 
lead  an  easy-going  life  here — seem  to  spend  half  their  time 
floating  about  on  the  river — or  meeting  in  the  'evening  to 
talk  &  read  aloud.  Judge  Hoar  says  it  is  a  good  place  to 
live  and  die  in,  but  a  very  bad  place  to  make  a  living  in. 
Beatrice  spent  one  Sunday  with  us  here.  We  walked  to 
Hawthorne's  old  house  in  the  morning,  &  in  the  afternoon 
to  the  "Old  Manse"  and  to  Sleepy  Hollow,  most  beautiful 
of  last  resting  places.  Tuesday  we  go  on  to  Boston  for  a  week 
very  loth  to  leave  Concord — at  least,  I  am! — but  Giddy 
begins  to  long  for  city  life  again.  And  then  to  New  York 
about  the  5th  Nov.  Herby  told  you,  no  doubt,  that  1  spent 

161 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

an  hour  or  two  with  Emerson — and  that  he  looked  very 
beautiful — and  talked  in  a  friendly,  pleasant  manner.  A 
long  letter  from  my  sister  in  England  tells  me  Per.  looks 
well  and  happy  &  is  so  proud  of  his  little  boy — and  that  Norah 
is  really  a  perfect  wife  to  him — affectionate,  devoted,  and 
the  best  of  housewives.  How  glad  I  am  Herby  is  painting 
you.  I  wonder  if  you  like  the  landscape  he  is  working  on  as 
well  as  you  did  "Timber  Creek."  Miss  Hillard  has  under 
taken  the  charge  of  a  young  lady's  education,'  and  is  very 
much  pleased  with  her  task.  She  is  in  a  delightful  family 
who  make  her  quite  one  with  them — live  in  the  best  part  of 
New  York,  and  pay  her  a  handsome  salary.  She  has  the 
afternoons  and  Saturday  &  Sunday  to  herself. — Concord 
boasts  of  having  been  first  to  recognize  your  genius.  Mr. 
Alcott  &  Mr.  Sanborn  say  so.  Good-bye,  dear  Friend. 

A.G. 


162 


LETTER     XLII 

ANNE    GILCHRIST^TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

39  Somerset  St. 

Boston 
Nov.  13/78. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

I  feel  as  if  I  didn't  a  bit  deserve  the  glorious  budget  you 
sent  me  yesterday,  for  I  have  been  a  laggard,  dull  corres 
pondent  of  late,  because,  leading  such  an  unsettled  kind  of 
life,  I  don't  seem  to  have  got  well  hold  of  myself.  Beautiful 
is  the  title  prose  poem — the  glimpse  of  the  autumn  cornfield: 
one  smells  the  sweet  fragrance,  basks  in  the  sunshine  with 
you — tastes  all  the  varied,  subtle  outdoor  pleasures,  just  as 
you  want  us  to.  A  lady  who  has  just  been  calling  on  me— 
Miss  Hillard — no  relation  of  the  odious  Dr.  H. — said, 
"  Have  you  seen  a  lovely  little  bit  about  a  cornfield  by 
Walt  Whitman  in  a  New  York  paper?"  She  did  not  know 
your  poems,  but  was  so  taken  with  this.  By  the  bye,  I  am 
not  quite  American  enough  yet  to  enjoy  the  sound  of  the 
locusts  &  big  grasshoppers — ours  are  modest  little  things  that 
only  make  a  gentle  sort  of  whirr — not  that  loud  brassy  sound 
— couldn't  help  wishing  for  more  birds  &  less  insects  when  I 
was  at  Chesterfield — but  I  like  our  English  name  "lady 
bird"  better  than  "ladybug".  Do  your  children  always 
say  when  they  see  one,  as  ours  do,  "  Ladybird,  ladybird,  fly 
away  home:  your  house  is  on  fire,  your  children  are  flown"? 
But  for  the  rest — I  believe  I  am  growing  a  very  good  Ameri 
can;  indeed,  certain  am  I  there  is  no  more  lovable  people  to 

163 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

live  amongst  anywhere  in  the  world — and  in  this  respect  it 
has  been  good  to  give  up  having  a  home  of  my  own  here  for 
awhile — for  I  have  been  thrown  amongst  many  more  inti 
mately  than  I  could  have  been  otherwise.  What  you  say 
of  Herby's  picture  delights  me,  dear  Friend.  I  have  been 
grieving  he  was  not  with  us,  sharing  the  pleasant  times  we 
have  had  and  enlarging  his  circle  of  friends — but  after  all  he 
could  not  have  been  doing  better — he  must  come  on  here 
by  &  bye.  I  wonder  if  you  are  as  satisfied  with  his  portrait 
of  you  as  with  the  landscape.  I  suppose  he  is  gone  on  to 
New  York  to-day.  I  have  sighed  for  dear  little  Concord 
many  times  since  I  came  away — beautiful  city  as  Boston  is 
&  many  the  interesting  &  kindly  people  I  am  seeing  here:  but 
the  outdoor  life  &  the  entirely  simple,  unpretending,  cordial, 
friendly  ways  of  Concord  &  its  inhabitants  won  my  heart 
altogether — one  of  them  came  to  see  me  to-day  &  to  ask  us 
to  go  and  spend  a  couple  of  days  with  them  there  again  be 
fore  we  leave  &  I  could  not  say  nay,  though  our  time  is  short. 
There  are  some  portraits  in  the  Art  Museum  here,  which 
interested  me  a  good  deal — of  Adams,  Hancock,  Quincy,  &c., 
— &  of  some  of  the  women'of  that  time — they  would  form  an 
excellent  nucleus  of  a  national  portrait  gallery,  which  (to 
gether  with  good  biographies  while  yet  materials  &  recol 
lections  are  fresh  &  abundant)  would  be  a  very  interesting  & 
important  contribution  to  the  world's  history. — Tennyson's 
letter  is  a  pleasure  to  me  to  see — considering  his  age  &  the 
imperfection  of  his  sight  through  life,  matters  are  better 
rather  than  worse  with  him  than  one  could  have  expected. 
Since  that  was  written  a  friend  (Walter  White)  tells  me  they 
— the  Tennysons — have  taken  a  house  in  Eaton  Sq.,  London, 
for  the  winter.  And  last,  not  least,  thanks  for  Mr.  Bur- 
roughs's  beautiful  letter — that  young  man  is  indeed,  as 
he  says,  like  a  bit  out  of  your  poems. 
There  are  two  or  three  fine  young  men  boarding  here,  & 

164 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

Giddy  &  I  enjoy  their  society  not  a  little.     Love  to  your 
Brothers  &  Sister.     I  shall  write  soon  as  I  am  settled  down 
in  New  York  to  her  or  Hattie.     Love  to  Mrs.  Stafford. 
And  most  of  all  to  you. 
Good-bye,  dear  friend. 

A.   GILCHRIST. 
I  will  send  T's  letter  in  a  day  or  two. 


LETTER     XLIII 

ANNE    GILCHRIST   TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

1 1 2  Madison  Ave. 
'New  York  \ 
Jan.  5,  '79. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

Herby  has  told  you  of  our  difficulties  in  getting  comfor 
table  quarters  here — and  also  that  we  seem  now  to  have  suc 
ceeded — not  indeed  in  the  way  I  most  wished  &  hoped  we  had 
— in  1 9th  St.,  taking  rooms  &  boarding  ourselves — so  that 
we  could  have  a  friend  with  us  when  &  as  we  pleased.  It 
seems  as  if  that  were  not  practicable  unless  we  were  to  fur 
nish  for  ourselves.  Certainly  our  experiences  there  of  using 
another's  kitchen  were  discouraging — it  was  so  dirty  and 
uncomfortable  that  we  were  glad  to  take  refuge  in  a  regular 
boarding  house  again  before  one  week  was  out.  It  seems  to 
me  more  difficult  to  get  anything  of  a  medium  kind  in  New 
York  than  elsewhere  I  have  been — if  it  isn't  the  best,  it  is 
very  uninviting  indeed.  Herby  is  enjoying  his  work  and 
companionship  at  the  League  very  much.  We  stand  the 
cold  well — how  does  it  suit  you?  Is  your  arm  free  from 
rheumatic  pains?  When  you  come  to  Mr.  J.  H.  Johnstons, 
which  will  be  very  soon  I  hope,  we  shall  be  quite  handy, 
and  have  a  pretty,  sunny  room — a  sitting  room  by  day! — with 
a  handsome  piece  of  furniture  which  is  metamorphosed  into 
a  bed  at  night — and  a  large  dressing  closet  with  hot  &  cold 

1 66 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

water  adjoining — all  very  comfortable.  O  how  wistfully  do  I 
think  of  one  evening  in  Philadelphia,  last  winter.  I  shan't 
begin  really  to  like  New  York  till  you  come  and  we  have  had 
some  chats  together.  I  have  news  from  England  which 
makes  me  rather  anxious.  The  Blaenavon  Co.,  to  which  Per. 
is  chemist,  has  gone  into  liquidation — &  I  don't  know  whether 
it  will  continue  to  exist — or  how  soon  in  these  dull  times  he 
may  find  a  good  opening  elsewhere.  Should  things  go  badly 
for  him,  either  Giddy  and  I  will  return  to  England  to  share 
[our]  home  with  him  there,  or  else  I  want  him  to  take  into 
serious  consideration  coming  out  here,  instead  of  our  going 
back.  Of  course  it  would  be  a  risky  thing  for  him  to  do 
with  wife  &  child,  in  these  times,  unless  some  definite  open 
ing  presented  itself,  but  I  cannot  help  thinking  that,  being  an 
expert  in  his  profession,  with  first  rate  training  &  experience, 
and  iron  work  &  metallurgy  promising  here  to  have  such 
enormous  developments,  he  would  be  sure  to  do  well  in  the 
end;  and  meanwhile  we  could  rub  on  together  somehow. 
However,  we  shall  see.  I  have  laid  the  matter  before  him, 
he  &Jiis  dear  little  wife  wrote  me  a  very  brave,  cheery  letter 
when  they  told  me  the  bad  news — &  I  shall  have  an  answer 
to  mine,  I  suppose,  by  the  end  of  the  month.  Kate  Hillard 
read  an  amusing  paper  on  Swinburne  at  a  meeting  of  the 
Woman's  Club  in  Brooklyn — &  we  had  some  fine  music 
too.  For  the  rest,  I  have  not  yet  presented  any  introduc 
tions  here. 

Have  had  some  beautiful  glimpses  of  the  North  &  East 
River  effects  of  the  shipping  at  sunset,  &c. — Have  subscribed 
to  the  Mercantile  library, — &  are  beginning  to  feel  at  home. 
Herby  &  Giddy  had  been  to  hear  Mr.  Frothingham  this 
morning,  &  were  much  interested.  Bee  missed  us  sorely 
at  first — but  writes — when  she  does  write,  which  is  but 
seldom — pretty  cheerily.  Friendly  remembrance  to  your 
brother  &  sister.  I  wonder  where  ,Hattie  &  Jessie  are 

.67 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

spending  their  holidays.  Love  from  us  all.  Good-bye,  dear 
friend. 

A.  GILCHRIST. 

Had  a  letter  from  Mr.  Marvin — all  well — he  is  doing  the 
Washington  letter  of  a  N.  Eng.  paper.  Hopes  &  trusts 
you  are  really  going  to  Washington. 


168 


LETTER     XLIV 

ANNE    GILCHRIST   TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

112  Madison  Ave. 

14  Jan., '79. 
DEAREST  FRIEND:    , 

The  pleasantest  event  since  I  last  wrote  has  been  a  visit 
from  Mr.  Eldridge.  We  had  a  long,  friendly  chat  that  did  me 
good.  Saturday  evening  we  went  to  one  of  Miss  Booth's 
receptions — met  Joaquin  Miller  there,  who  is  just  back  from 
Europe — of  course  we  talked  of  you.  Mrs.  Moulton  too  is 
hoping  so  you  will  come  to  New  York  during  her  stay  here, 
which  is  to  last  a  week  or  two  longer.  John  Burroughs  has 
just  sent  me  a  post  card  to  say  he  has  returned  from  a  3-weeks 
stay  with  his  folks  in  Delaware  Co. — that  he  hopes  to  come 
here  soon — wants  Mrs.  Burroughs  to  come  too  &  board  for  a 
month  or  so — wants  also  "Walt  to  come — &  lecture" — but 
"Walt  will  not  be  hurried."  Did  I  tell  you  that  we  found 
boarding  here  a  young  man,  Mr.  Arthur  Holland,  one  of  the 
family  who  were  so  very  friendly  to  me  &  made  my  stay  so 
pleasant  both  in  Concord  &  Cambridge?  He  often  comes  to 
our  room  of  an  evening  for  an  hour  or  two's  chat,  &  by  the 
bye,  being  connected  with  the  iron  trade  he  has  been  able 
to  make  some  enquiries  for  me  as  to  what  Per's  chances  as  a 
scientific  metallurgist  would  be  in  this  country — &  I  am  sorry 
to  say  he  thinks  they  would  be  very  poor  indeed.  Prof. 
Lesley  said  the  same  thing;  so  it  is  clear  I  must  not  urge  him 

169 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

to  try  the  experiment,  seeing  he  has  a  wife  &  child.  Herby 
&  Giddy  both  well.  Love  from  us  all.  Good  bye,  Dear 
Friend. 

A.  GILCHRIST. 

Friendly  greeting  to  your  brother  &  sister. 


170 


LETTER     XLV 

ANNE   GILCHRIST  TO   WALT  WHITMAN 

1 12  Madison  Ave., 

Jan.  27,  '79. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

Are  you  never  coming?  I  do  long  &  long  to  see  you.  I 
am  beginning  to  like  New  York  better  than  I  did  and  to  have 
pleasant  times.  Had  some  friendly  chats  with  Kate  Hillard 
last  week,  &  went  with  her  to  call  on  Mrs.  Putman  Jacobi, 
who  has  a  little  baby  3  weeks  old  &  is  still  in  her  room,  but 
has  got  through  very  nicely — She  talks  well,  doesn't  she? 
&  has  a  face  with  plenty  of  individuality  in  it.  Also  we 
went  together  on  Saturday  again  to  one  of  Miss  Booth's 
receptions,  &  there  met  Mrs.  Croly,  &  had  the  best  talk 
about  you  I  have  had  this  long  while.  I  like  her  cordiality — 
we  are  going  to  her  reception  on  Sunday  &  to  one  at  Mrs. 
Bigelow's  Wednesday.  It  is  true  there  is  not  much  that  can 
be  called  social  enjoyment  at  these  crowded  receptions,  but 
they  enable  you  to  start  many  acquaintanceships,  some  of 
which  turn  out  lasting  good.  We  had  some  fine  harp  play 
ing  &  a  witty  recital  at  Miss  Booth's.  Miss  Selous  is  back 
in  America.  I  should  not  wonder  if  she  comes  on  here  soon. 
Bee  is  living  at  the  Dispensary  now,  instead  of  in  the  Hos 
pital,  &  finds  the  comparatively  outdoor  life — &  the  freedom 
from  being  "whistled"  for  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night  as 
she  was  there — a  wonderful  refreshment.  That  coloured 
lady,  Mrs.  Wiley,  whom  you  met  once  at  our  house,  is  her 
fellow  labourer  &  room  mate  at  the  Dispensary.  Bee  likes 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

her  much.  I  am  not  sure  whether  you  know  the  Gilders? 
We  spent  a  couple  of  hours  delightfully  with  them  yesterday 
afternoon.  She  has  a  very  attractive  face,  a  musical  voice,  & 
such  a  sweet  smile.  They  are  going  to  Europe  for  a  four 
months'  holiday  this  spring.  I  admire  the  simple,  uncon 
ventional  way  in  which  they  live.  Herby  is  working  away 
in  the  best  spirits.  He  is  going  to  paint  that  bowling  alley 
subject  on  a  large  scale.  Giddy  is  sitting  by  me  with  her 
nose  in  the  French  Dictionary,  working  away  at  a  novel  of 
Balzac's.  I  have  had  scarcely  any  letters  from  England 
lately! — and  the  papers  bring  none  but  dismal  tidings; 
nevertheless  I  don't  believe  our  sun  is  going  down  yet 
awhile — we  shall  emerge  from  this  dark  crisis  the  better,  not 
the  worse,  because  compelled  to  grapple  with  the  evils  that 
have  caused  it,  instead  of  passively  enduring  them.  Please 
give  friendly  remembrance  from  me  to  your  brothers  & 
sister.  Have  you  been  at  Kirkwood  lately,  I  wonder?  I 
suppose  Timber  Creek  is  frozen  over.  Good-bye,  dear 
Friend.  Write  soon,  or  better  still  Come ! 

A.  GILCHRIST. 


172 


LETTER     XLVI 

HERBERT     H.     GILCHRIST    TO     WALT 
WHITMAN 

New  York 

1 1 2  Madison  Avenue 
February    2nd,     1879. 
DEAR  DARLING  WALT: 

I  read  your  long  piece  in  the  Philadelphia  Times  with  ever 
so  much  interest,  &  with  especial  delight  the  delicately  told 
bit  about  the  dear  old  Pond,  artistic,  because  so  true.  I  know 
that  it  will  please  you  to  hear  that  I  have  gained  tenfold 
facility  with  my  brush  since  the  autumn.  It  has  agreed 
uncommonly  well  with  me  having  enlisted  under  such  an 
experienced  &  able  painter  as  Chase;  as  a  manipulator  of 
the  brush  he  is  agreed  by  the  experts  (Eaton)  to  have  no 
rival.  I  may  yet  be  able  to  paint  a  head  of  you  in  one 
sitting  that  will  do  justice  to  you.  Three  of  my  pictures  are 
nicely  hung  at  the  Water  Colour  Exhibition  Academy  of 
Design,  the  first  time  that  I  have  exhibited  in  New  York. 
We  had  two  &  three  engagements  every  night  (with  one 
exception)  last  week,  &  go  to  Mrs.  Croley's  to-night.  Your 
friend  John  Burroughs  called  last  Wednesday — came  to  try 
Turkish  baths  for  his  malarious  trouble,  but  it  seemed  to 
bring  on  his  attacks  of  neuralgia  worse.  I  am  sorry  that 
I  can  report  but  poorly  of  his  health,  so  painfully  excruciating 
was  his  neuralgia  about  his  arms  at  times  that  a  Dr.  was  sent 
for  &  morphia  injected  in  his  wrist,  but  I  am  glad  to  say  he 
reported  himself  a  little  better.  He  hopes  that  you  will 

173 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

come  and  give  the  lecture  on  Lincoln  this  winter;  why  not, 
confound  it,  it  would  be  most  interesting. 

Quite  often  we  go  to  Miss  Booth's  receptions.  Saturday 
evening,  they  are  gay  &  amusing.  Met  Mr.  Bliss,  the  gentle 
man  that  talked  like  "a  house  afire"  one  Sunday  at  your 
house  last  winter,  you  remember. 

Last  Wednesday  I,  mother,  Giddy,  &  Kate  Hillard  went  to 
Mrs.  Bigelow's  reception.  Miss  H.  was  asked  to  recite  & 
she  recited  the  "Swineherd"  (Anderson's)  charmingly,  & 
"The  Faithful  Lovers,"  which  took  every  one.  "Walk  in" 
Miller  was  there  (I  can't  spell  his  name)  &  lots  more. 

This  morning  being  Sunday,  I  took  my  skates  to  the  Park. 
The  wind  was  high  &  whirled  us  about  fantastically;  ladies 
seated  in  wicker  chairs  were  pushed  rapidly  along  the  Pond's 
smooth  icy  surface  by  their  gentlemen  escorts,  tall  men 
kissed  the  ice  or  sprawled  full  length  on  their  backs,  while 
others  flew  by  like  swallows;  all  this  with  a  church  spire 
peeping  behind  hills  dappled  with  snow  &  sunshine:  what 
more  inspiriting  than  this? 

And  now  dear  Walt. 

Good-bye  for  the  present. 

HERBERT  H.  GILCHRIST. 


174 


LETTER     XLVII 

BEATRICE         GILCHRIST        TO          WALT 
WHITMAN 

33  Warrenion  St. 

Feb.  1 6,  1879, 
DEAR  MR.  WHITMAN: 

Although  not  in  word,  I  have  thanked  you  for  your  letter 
&  papers  by  enjoying  them  thoroughly. 

Down  at  this  Dispensary  we  work  just  as  hard  as  at  the 
Hospital,  but  our  spare  minutes  are  our  own  (no  records  to 
write  out);  our  work  is  under  our  own  control;  we  are  out  in 
fresh  air  half  the  day,  sometimes  half  the  night,  making  inti 
mate  acquaintance  with  all  sorts  of  people  &  places  &  with 
far  distant  parts  of  Boston. 

We  have  all  the  responsibility  that  it  is  good  for  young 
doctors  to  have,  i.  e.,  in  all  difficult  or  obscure  &  dangerous 
cases  we  are  obliged  to  call  in  older  heads  &  are  obliged  to 
report  verbally  to  the  visiting  physician  of  the  month  all 
our  cases  &  our  treatment.  Only  two  students  live  at  the 
Dispensary — Dr.  Wiley  (the  coloured  Philadelphia  student 
you  saw)  &  myself.  In  tastes  we  have  much  in  common  & 
on  the  whole  I  prefer  to  live  with  her  rather  than  with  any 
of  the  other  students.  We  share  rooms.  We  have  a  bed 
room,  a  drug-room,  a  treatment  room,  waiting  room  for 
patients,  &  take  our  meals  in  the  kitchen. 

A  widow  woman  with  two  children  housekeeps. 

I  think  Boston  a  very  beautiful  city.  The  public  Gardens 
&  Commons  in  the  busiest  part,  sloping  down  from  the  gilt 

175 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

domed  state  house  on  Beacon  hill,  threaded  by  paths  in  all 
directions,  traversed,  by  the  business  men,  the  fine  ladies, 
the  beggars,  etc.,  etc.  One  broad,  sloping  path  is  given  up 
to  the  boys  who  want  to  coast,  temporary  wooden  bridges 
being  thrown  over  the  cross  paths.  Then,  crossing  South 
Bay  to  South  Boston  is  a  beautiful  walk  I  take  from  one  to 
four  times  a  day.  South  Boston  looks  rather  dingy;  it  is 
inhabited  mostly  by  artisans  &  mill  hands  &  fishermen,  but 
walking  up  3rd  St.,  as  you  cross  the  lettered  streets  A,  B, 
C,  D,  etc.,  you  look  down  upon  the  harbour — on  bright  days 
bright  blue,&  a  few  sails  to  be  seen— at  sunset  the  colours  of 
course  are  reflected  gorgeously. 

Somehow  or  other  the  sea  looks  doubly  beautiful  set  in 
dingy  S.  Boston. 

Far  over  in  the  West  End  too  we  have  patients.  Last 
Tuesday  I  had  twins  all  by  myself;  only  one,  however,  was 
born  alive;  the  other  had  been  dead  a  week.  How  delight 
ful  that  you  are  feeling  so  much  better.  Shall  you  not  be 
coming  to  Boston  sometime  before  I  leave,  ist  June? 

The  Boston  I  know  is  not  the  Boston  I  knew  in  books;  I 
am  as  far  off  from  that  as  if  I  lived  in  England — is  not  the 
"hub" — I  was  reminded  of  that  last  Sunday  when  I  had  time 
for  once  to  go  to  church  &  went  to  hear  Mr.  E.  E.  Hale  preach 
and  went  home  to  dinner  with  him.  .  .  . 

I  like  his  daughter  whom  we  knew  in  Philadelphia.  She 
is  a  clever  young  artist.  Dr.  Wiley  is  very  popular  with  her 
patients,  far  more  so  than  I . 

Please  remember  me  to  all  the  Staffords  &  give  my  especial 
love  to  Mrs.  Stafford.    Also  to  Mrs.  Whitman. 
Yours  affectionately, 

BEATRICE  C.  GILCHRIST. 


176 


LETTER     XLVIII 

ANNE    GILCHRIST   TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

1 1 2  Madison  Ave. 

March  18,   1879. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

I  hope  you  are  enjoying  this  splendid,  sunshiny  weather  as 
much  as  we  are — the  atmosphere  here  is  delicious.  In 
the  morning  Giddy  and  I  set  at  home  busy  with  needle  work, 
letter  writing,  and  reading.  After  lunch  we  go  out  for  a  walk 
or  to  pay  visits — and  of  an  evening  very  often  to  receptions 
(but  they  are  not  half  so  jolly  as  our  evenings  at  Philadel 
phia).  Still  we  have  a  lively,  pleasant  time.  I  like  Miss 
Booth  very  much,  with  her  kindly,  generous  character  and 
active  practical  mind.  So  I  do  Mrs.  Croly — she  is  more 
impulsive  and  enthusiastic.  Kate  Hillard  often  goes  with 
us,  &  she  is  always  good  company.  I  had  a  note  from 
Edward  Carpenter  the  other  day  brought  by  a  lady  who  had 
been  living  near  him  at  Sheffield — an  American  lady  with 
two  very  fine  little  girls  who  has  lately  lost  her  husband  in 
England  and  was  on  her  way  back  to  her  parents'  home  in 
Pennsylvania — somewhere  beyond  Pittsburg.  She  is  one 
who  loves  your  poems,  &  has  great  hopes  of  seeing  you  in  New 
York.  She  told  me  her  little  girls  were  so  fond  of  Carpenter 
he  of  them — he  is  first  rate  with  children.  I  hope  you  will 
not  put  off  coming  to  New  York  till  we  are  returning  to 
Philadelphia,  which  will  be  some  time  in  May.  I  find  Bea 
trice  is  so  anxious  to  get  further  advantages  for  study  in 
England  or  Paris  before  she  begins  to  practise,  and  Herby  is 

177 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

so  strongly  advised  by  Mr.  Eaton,  of  whose  judgment  &  ex 
perience  he  thinks  very  highly,  to  study  in  Duron's  Studio 
in  Paris  for  a  year,  that  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  go  back, 
for  a  time  at  any  rate,  this  summer;  but  I  shall  leave  my 
furniture  here,  and  the  question  of  where  our  future  home  is 
to  be,  open.  Herby  is  making  great  progress.  I  wish  you 
could  see  the  head  of  an  old  woman  he  has  just  painted — and 
I  wish  he  had  had  as  much  power  when  he  had  such  splendid 
chances  of  painting  you.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  vividly  and 
pleasantly  Chestnut  St.  on  a  sunny  day  rose  before  me  in 
your  jottings.  Love  from  us  all.  Tell  your  sister  I  often 
think  of  her  &  shall  enjoy  a  chat  ever  so. 

A.G. 


178 


LETTER     XLIX 

ANNE   GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 

112  Madison  Ave. 

March  26,  '79. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

It  seems  quite  a  long  while  since  I  wrote,  &  a  very  long 
while  since  you  wrote.  I  am  beginning  to  turn  my  thoughts 
Philadelphia-wards  that  we  may  have  some  weeks  near  you 
before  we  set  out  on  fresh  wanderings  across  the  sea;  and 
though  I  feel  quite  cheery  about  them,  I  look  eagerly  forward 
to  the  time  beyond  that  when  we  have  a  fixed,  final  nest  of 
our  own  again,  where  we  can  welcome  you  just  when  and  as 
you  please.  Whichever  side  the  Atlantic  it  is,  you  will  come 
surely?  for  you  belong  to  the  one  country  as  much  as  to  the 
other.  And  1  shall  always  feel  that  I  do  too.  I  take  back 
with  me  a  deep  and  hearty  love  for  America — I  came  indeed 
with  a  good  deal  of  that,  but  what  I  take  back  is  different — 
stronger,  more  real.  I  went  over  to  see  friends  in  Brooklyn 
yesterday,  &  it  was  more  lovely  than  I  can  tell  you  on  the 
Ferry — in  fact,  it  was  just  your  poem,  "Crossing  Brooklyn 
Ferry".  Herby  still  painting  away  con  amore,  &  making 
good  progress.  I  met  Joaquin  Miller  at  the  Bigelows  last 
week,  &  he  was  very  pleasant  (which  isn't  always  the  case) 
and  said  some  very  good  things  to  me.  Thursday  we  are 
going  to  lunch  with  Mrs.  Albert  Brown — perhaps  you  may 
have  heard  of  her  as  Bessie  Griffiths.  She  was  a  Southern 
lady  who,  when  she  was  about  18,  freed  all  her  slaves  &  left 
herself  penniless.  On  Sunday  we  take  tea  at  Prof.  Rood's  of 

179 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

Columbia  College.  Kate  Hillard  we  often  see  &  have 
lively  chats  with.  We  meet  also  &  see  a  good  deal  of  Gene 
ral  Edward  Lee — a  fine  soldierly  looking  man,  &  I  believe 
he  distinguished  himself  in  the  war  &  was  afterwards  sent  to 
organize  the  new  Territory  of  Wyoming,  &  was  the  first  gov 
ernor.  I  wish  very  much  that  if  you  or  your  brother  knew 
him  or  know  anything  about  him,  you  would  tell  me — for 
reasons  that  I  will  tell  you  by  &  bye.  Bee  is  seeing  a  great 
deal  of  the  educated  coloured  people  at  Boston — was  at  the 
meeting  of  a  literary  club — the  only  white  among  20  or  30 
coloured  ladies — likes  them  much. 

Write  soon,  dear  Friend.    Meanwhile,  best  love  &  good 
bye. 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 

No  letters  from  England  this  long  while. 
Please  give  friendly  greetings  from  me  to  your  brother  & 
sister. 


i8o~ 


LETTER    L 

ANNE   GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 

Glasgow 

Friday,  June  20,  1879. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

We  set  foot  on  dry  land  again  Wednesday  morning  after  a 
good  passage — not  a  very  smooth  one — and  not  without  four 
or  five  days  of  seasickness,  but  after  that  we  really  enjoyed  the 
sea  &  the  sky — it  was  mostly  cloudy,  but  such  lovely  lights 
and  shades  &  invigorating  breezes!  and  as  we  got  up  into 
northern  latitudes,  daylight  in  the  sky  all  night  through. 
The  last  three  days  we  had  glorious  scenery — sailed  close  in 
under  the  Giant's  Causeway  on  the  north  coast  of  Ireland- 
great  sort  of  natural  ramparts  &  bastions  or  rock,  wonder 
fully  grand.  Then  we  sailed  on  Lough  Fozle  to  land  a  group 
of  Irish  folk  at  Moville — some  of  them  old  people  who  had  not 
seen  Ireland  for  forty  years,  and  who  were  so  happy  they  did 
not  know  what  to  do  with  themselves.  And  what  with  this 
human  interest,  and  the  first  getting  near  land  again  and  the 
rich  green-and-golden  gorse-covered  hills  &  the  setting  sun 
streaming  along  the  beautiful  lough  with  golden  light,  it  was  a 
sight  &  a  time  I  shall  never  forget.  Then  we  entered  the 
Firth  of  Clyde  &  sailed  among  the  islands — mountainous 
Arran,  level  Bute — &  on  the  other  hand  the  green  hills  of 
Ayr,  with  pleasant  towns  nestled  under  them,  sloping  to  the 
Clyde — this  was  during  the  night — we  did  not  go  to  bed  at 
all  it  was  so  beautiful — &  then  came  a  gorgeous  sunrise — & 
then  the  landing  at  Greenock  &  a  short  railway  journey  to 

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ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

Glasgow,  the  tide  not  serving  to  bring  our  big  ship  up  so 
far.  We  had  very  pleasant  (&  learned  withal)  companions 
on  the  voyage — the  Professor  of  Greek  &  of  Philosophy  from 
Harvard  and  a  young  student  from  Concord,  all  of  whom  we 
have  seen  since  we  landed  and  hope  to  see  often  again,  espe 
cially  the  young  student,  Frank  Bigelow,  who  is  a  very  nice 
fellow.  Herby  enjoyed  the  voyage  much  &  so  did  Giddy. 
Glasgow  is  a  great,  solidly  built  city,  very  pleasant  [in]  spite  of 
smoky  atmosphere — full  of  sturdy,  rosy-cheeked  people  with 
broad  Scotch  accent.  We  have  been  rushing  about  shopping — 
have  not  yet  seen  Per. — shall  meet  him  at  Durham  in  a 
week's  time  &  spend  a  month  together  there  where  he  will 
be  superintending  your  works.  Meanwhile  we  are  going  to 
Edinburgh  for  a  few  days.  I  kept  thinking  of  you  on  the 
voyage,  dear  friend,  &  wondering  how  you  would  like  it — & 
whether  you  could  stand  being  stowed  away  in  the  little  box- 
like  berth  at  night.  I  should  recommend  any  American 
friend  coming  over  to  try  this  line — we  had  a  fine  ship — fine 
officers  &  crew — &  the  latter  part,  fine  scenery.  Love  to 
your  Brother  &  Sister  &  to  Mr.  Burroughs.  Address  to  me 
for  the  present. 

Care  Percy  C.  Gilchrist 

Blaenavon 

Poutzpool 

Mon. 

Love  from  us  all.  I  shall  write  soon  again.  Good-bye  dear 
Friend. 

A.  GILCHRIST. 


182 


LETTER     LI 

ANNE    GILCHRIST   T    O   WALT   WHIT  MA  N 

Lower  Sbincliffe 

Durham 
August  2d,  '79. 
DEAREST  FRIEND: 

I  am  sitting  in  my  room  with  my  dear  little  grandson,  the 
sweetest  little  fellow  you  ever  saw,  asleep  beside  me.  Giddy 
and  Norah  (my  3d  daughter)  are  gone  into  Durham  to  do 
some  shopping.  Bee  is  up  in  London  on  her  way  to  Berne 
in  Switzerland,  where  she  has  finally  decided  to  complete 
her  medical  studies.  Herby  is,  I  think,  staying  with  Eustace 
Conway  at  Hammersmith  just  now.  He  has  been  spending 
a  week  at  Brighton  with  Edward  Carpenter  &  his  family — 
but  I  will  leave  him  to  tell  his  own  news.  We  are  lodging  in 
this  little  village  with  its  red-tiled  roofs  &  gray  stone  walls, 
lying  among  wooded  hills,  corn  fields,  meadows,  and  collieries 
on  the  banks  of  the  Weir,  for  the  sake  of  being  near  Percy  & 
his  wife.  He  is  superintending  here  the  erection  of  some 
kilns  for  making  the  peculiar  kind  of  basic  firebricks  needed  in 
his  dephosphorization  process.  Durham  Cathedral,  which 
was  mainly  built  soon  after  the  Norman  conquest,  is  in 
sight,  crowning  a  wooded  hill  that  rises  abruptly  from  the 
river-side.  It  looks  as  solid,  majestic,  venerable  as  the  rocks 
&  hills — the  interior  is  of  wonderful  grandeur  &  beauty. 
When  you  enter  one  of  these  cathedrals  you  are  tempted  to 
say  architecture  is  a  lost  art  with  us  moderns  so  far  as  sub 
limity  is  concerned — except  in  vast  engineering  works.  You 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

would  not  dignify  the  Weir  with  the  name  of  a  river  in 
America — it  is  no  bigger  than  Timber  Creek — but  it  winds 
about  so  capriciously  through  the  picturesque  little  city  as 
to  make  almost  an  island  of  the  hill  on  which  the  castle  & 
cathedral  stand  &  to  need  three  great  solid  stone  bridges 
within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  each  other,  &  with  its  steep 
wooded  sides  carrying  nature  right  into  the  heart  of  the  old 
town.  But  the  rainy  season  (we  have  scarcely  seen  the  sun 
since  we  have  been  in  England  &  I  believe  it  is  the  same  in 
France  &  Italy)  and  the  great  depression  in  trade,  especially 
the  coal  &  iron,  which  chiefly  concerns  this  district,  seem  to 
cast  a  gloom  over  everything.  There  are  whole  rows  of 
colliers'  cottages  in  this  village  empty.  Where  they  go  to  no 
one  knows,  but  as  soon  as  the  collieries  reopen  they  will  all 
reappear.  We  often  meet  Colliers  returning  from  work — 
they  look  as  if  they  had  just  emerged  from  Hades,  poor 
fellows — their  faces  black  as  soot — their  lean,  bowed  legs 
bare — I  believe  the  mines  are  hot  here;  they  work  with 
little  on — but  they  are  really  the  cleanest  of  all  workmen,  as 
they  take  a  bath  every  night  on  their  return  before  supping. 
The  speech  here  is  almost  like  a  foreign  tongue  to  any  one 
from  the  south  or  middle  of  England.  I  wonder  if  you  have 
yet  read  Dr.  Bucke's  book.1  It  is  about  the  only  thing  I  have 
read  since  my  return.  It  suggests  deeply  interesting  trains 
of  thought. 

I  wonder  if  you  are  at  Camden,  taking  your  daily  trips 
across  the  ferry  &  strolls  up  Chestnut  St.  I  hardly  realized 
till  I  left  it  how  dearly  I  love  America — great  sunny  land  of 
hope  and  progress — or  how  my  whole  life  has  been  enriched 
with  the  human  intercourse  I  had  there.  Give  my  love  to 
those  of  our  friends  whom  you  know  &  tell  them  not  to  for 
get  us.  I  have  had  a  long  letter  from  Emma  Lazarus.  I 
suppose  Hattie  and  Jessie  are  spending  their  holidays  at 

l"Man's  Moral  Nature,"  by  Dr.  Richard  Maurice  Bucke. 

•84 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

Camden  &  that  Hattie  has  pretty  well  done  with  school. 
We  have  been  chiefly  busy  with  needlework  since  we  came 
— preparing  dear  Bee  for  Berne.  I  miss  her  sadly — 
had  quite  hoped  we  should  have  all  been  together  at 
Paris  this  winter — but  it  seems  the  course  is  much  longer  & 
more  arduous  [there].  We  spent  a  week  in  Edinburgh  before 
we  came  on  here.  It  is  by  far  the  most  beautiful  city  I  have 
ever  seen.  The  journey  between  it  and  Berwick-on-Tweed 
lies  through  the  richest  &  best  cultivated  farm  land  in  Britain 
— the  sea  sparkling  on  one  side  of  us  &  these  fertile  fields  dotted 
with  splendid  flocks  &  herds — with  large  comfortable-looking 
farmhouses,  &  here  &  there  an  old  castle;  it  was  singularly 
enjoyable.  How  I  have  wished  everywhere  that  you  were 
with  us  to  share  the  sight — and  the  best  is  that  you  would 
return  home  more  than  ever  proud  &  rejoicing  in  America. 
It  is  a  land  where  humanity  is  having,  and  is  going  to  have, 
such  chances  as  never  before.  Giddy  sends  her  love.  Mine 
also  &  to  your  brother  &  sister.  Good-bye,  dear  Friend. 

A.  GILCHRIST. 
Please  write  soon;  I  am  longing  for  a  letter. 


LETTER     LI  I1 


WALT   WHITMAN   TO   ANNE    GILCHRIST 

(Camden,  New  Jersey.) 

(August,  1879.) 

Thank  you,  dear  friend,  for  your  letter;  how  I  should  indeed 
like  to  see  that  Cathedral2,  I  don't  know  which  I  should  go 
for  first,  the  Cathedral  or  that  baby.3  I  write  in  haste,  but  I 
am  determined  you  shall  have  a  word,  at  least,  promptly  in 
response. 


lThis  extract  (?)  is  taken  from  H.  H.  Gilchrist's  "Anne  Gilchrist,"  p.  252.    It  is  undated,  but 
it  is  clearly  a  reply  to  the  foregoing  letter  .from  Mrs.  Gilchrist. 
»Durham  Cathedral. 
»Anne  Gilchrist's  grandchild. 


186 


LETTER     L  I  I  I 

ANNE   GILCHRIST   TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

i  Elm  Villas,  Elm  Row,  Heath  St. 
Hampstead,  Dec.  5,  '79,  London,  England. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

You  could  not  easily  realize  the  strong  emotion  with  which 
I  read  your  last  note  and  traced  on  the  little  map1 — a  most 
precious  possession  which  I  would  not  part  with  for  the 
whole  world — all  your  journeyings — both  in  youth  &  now. 
Mingled  emotions!  for  I  cannot  but  feel  anxious  about  your 
health,  &  if  I  didn't  know  it  was  very  naught  to  ask  you 
questions,  should  beg  you  [to]  tell  me  in  what  way  your 
health  has  failed — whether  it  is  the  rheumatic  &  neuralgic 
affection  that  troubled  you  the  last  spring  we  were  in  Phil 
adelphia,  or  whether  the  fatigues  &  excitements  &  the  very 
enjoyments  &  full  life,  &  burst  of  prophetic  joy,  as  it  were, 
had  proved  too  great  a  strain.  But  you  have  accomplished 
another  thing,  that  had  to  be  done  in  your  life  &  I  exult  with 
you — have  seen  the  vast  magnificent  theatre,  the  free,  un 
fettered  conditions  whereon  humanity  will  enact  a  new 
drama,  with  the  parts  all  so  differently  cast !  the  rest — the 
moving  spirit  of  it  all — hints  of  this,  at  least — flashes, 
glimpses,  I  find  in  your  greatest  poems.  But,  dear  Friend,  I 
think  humanity  moves  forward  [slowly]  even  under  splendid 
conditions — you  must  give  it  a  century  or  two  instead  of 
50  years — before  at  least  the  crowning  glories  of  a  corres 
ponding  literature  &  art  will  develope  themselves — Nature 

Reproduced  in'/'Anne  Gilchrist,  Her  Life  and  Writings,"  facing  p.  253. 

187 


ANNE   G1LCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

has  got  plenty  of  time  before  her,  &  obstinately  refuses  to 
be  hurried;  witness  her  dealings  with  the  mere  rocks  &  stones. 
Bee  is  at  Berne,  working  away  merrily,  rejoicing  in  the 
really  splendid  advantage  for  medical  study  there  open  to 
her.  She  mastered  German  so  as  to  be  able  to  speak  & 
understand  it — lectures  &  all — with  ease  during  the  two 
months  at  Wiesbaden  &  she  has  found  a  thoroughly  com 
fortable  home  with  some  excellent,  intelligent  ladies  who 
are  fond  of  her  &  see  to  her  bodily  welfare  in  every  possible 
way.  I  have  my  dear  little  grandson  with  me  here — as  en 
gaging  a  little  toddler  as  the  sun  ever  shone  upon — so  affec 
tionate  &  sweet-tempered  &  bright.  I  wish  I  could  see 
him  sitting  on  your  knee.  You  will  certainly  have  to  come 
to  us  as  soon  as  ever  we  have  a  comfortable  home,  won't  you? 
Giddy  is  well  &  as  rosy  as  ever.  She  &  Herby  send  their 
love.  I  have  seen  Rossetti — he  was  full  of  enquiries  & 
affectionate  interest  in  all  that  concerns  you — &  loth  we 
were  to  break  off  our  conversation  &  hurry  back — but 
Hampstead,  the  pleasantest  &  prettiest  of  all  our  suburbs, 
is  terribly  inaccessible  &  cuts  us  off  a  good  deal  from  the 
intercourse  with  old  friends  I  had  looked  forward  to.  It 
is  on  the  top  of  a  high  hill  (as  high  as  the  top  of  St.  Pauls), 
&  looks  down  on  one  side  over  the  great  city  with  its  canopy  of 
smoke,  &  on  the  other  over  a  wide,  pleasant  stretch  of  green 
&  fertile  Middlesex— has  moreover  pleasant  lanes,  solid  old 
houses,. shaded  by  big  elms,  &  other  picturesque  features  & 
such  an  abundance  of  keen,  fresh  air  this  cold  weather  too! 
We  sigh  for  the  warmth  of  an  American  house  indoors  often 
&  for  American  sunshine  out  of  doors.  Rossetti  has  a  beauti 
ful  little  group  of  children  growing  up  around  him — I  think 
the  eldest  girl  will  grow  up  a  real  beauty  &  the  boy  too  is  a 
noble  little  fellow.  I  meet  numbers  so  delighted  to  hear 
about  you.  I  believe  Addington  Symonds  is  preparing  a 
book  which  treats  largely  of  your  Poems.^ 

1 88 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

Glad  to  hear  that  Brother  &  Sister  &  nieces  are  all  well. 
I  wish  I  could  write  to  some  of  them,  but  what  with  needle 
work,  an  avalanche  of  letters,  the  care  of  my  dear  little  man — 
the  re-editing  of  my  husband's  life  of  Blake,  to  which  there 
will  be  a  considerable  addition  of  letters  newly  come  to  light, 
I  hardly  know  which  way  to  turn.  Per.  &  my  nephew  &  the 
"Process"  have  made  a  great  stride  forward.  Won  two 
important  law  suits  at  Berlin,  where  the  Bessemer  ring  & 
Krupp  at  their  head  were  trying  to  oust  them  of  their  patent 
rights.  Also  it  is  practically  making  good  way  in  England. 
So  by  &  bye  the  money  will  begin  to  flow  in,  I  suppose — 
but  has  not  done  so  yet. 

I  trust,  dearest  Friend,  this  will  find  you  safe  &  fairly  well 
again  at  Camden,  with  plenty  of  great,  happy  thoughts  to 
brood  over  for  the  winter. 

Love  from  us  all.    Good-bye. 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 


189 


LETTER     LI  V 

ANNE   GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 

(   5  Mount  Vernon 

Hampstead 
Jan.  25,  '80. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

Welcome  was  your  postcard  announcing  recovered  health 
&  return  to  Camden !  May  this  find  you  safe  there,  well  & 
hearty,  able  to  go  freely  to  &  fro  on  the  ferries  &  streets. 
I  wish  one  of  those  old  red  Market  Ferry  cars  were  going  to 
land  you  at  our  door  once  more!  What  you  would  have  to 
tell  us  of  western  scenes  &  life!  What  teas  &  what  evenings 
we  would  have — you  would  certainly  have  to  say  "  there  is  a 
point  beyond  which" — &  would  have  pretty  late  trips  back 
of  moonlight.  Strange  episode  in  my  life!  so  unlike  what 
went  before  &  what  comes  after — those  evenings  in  Phil 
adelphia — yet  so  natural,  familiar,  dear!  If  I  were  Ameri 
can-born,  I  certainly  should  not  want  to  change  it  for  any 
country  in  the  world,  and  if  as  you  have  dreamed — as  I  too 
have  dreamed — it  is  given  us  hereafter  to  have  another  spell 
of  life  on  this  old  earth,  may  my  lot  be  cast  there  when  the 
great  time  dimly  preparing  is  actually  come.  But  mean 
while,  dear  Friend,  my  work  lies  here:  innumerable  are  the 
ties  that  bind  us.  And  I  can  only  hope  &  dream  that  you 
will  come  &  stay  with  us  awhile  when  we  have  a  home  of  our 
own.  That  dear  little  grandson  stayed  with  me  two  months 
till  I  really  didn't  know  how  to  part  with  him,  &  grew  more 
&  more  engaging  &  pretty  in  his  ways  every  day — rapid 

190 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

indeed  is  the  opening  of  the  h'ttle  bud  at  that  age — between 
i  &  3 — &  the  way  he*had  of  looking  up  &  giving  you  little 
kisses  of  his  own  accord  would  win  anybody's  heart.  Bee's 
letters  continue  as  cheery  as  ever — she  is  heartily  enjoying 
work  &  life,  and  accomplishing  the  purpose  she  has  set  her 
heart  upon,  &  the  people  she  is  with  are  so  good  and  kindly,  it 
is  quite  a  home.  She  is  working  a  good  deal  with  the  micro 
scope.  Her  outdoor  recreation  is  skating.  Herby  is  get 
ting  on  very  nicely.  He  has  had  a  commission  to  make  some 
designs  for  a  new  kind  cf  painted  tapestry — and  his  figures 
"Audrey  &  Touchstone"  are  very  much  admired  &  have 
been  bought  by  a  rich  American,  &  he  has  a  commission  for 
more.  But  the  summer  work  he  has  set  his  heart  upon  is  a 
portrait  of  you  from  all  the  material  he  brought  with  him— 
the  many  attempts  he  made  there — handled  with  his  present 
improved  skill  with  the  brush.  I  hope  you  will  be  able  by 
&  bye  to  send  him  the  photograph  he  asked  for — but  no 
hurry.  Edward  Carpenter  came  up  from  Sheffield  and 
spent  an  evening  with  us — which  we  all  heartily  enjoyed— 
he  is  a  dear  fellow.  We  talked  much  of  you.  He  has  been 
giving  lectures  this  winter  on  the  Lives  of  the  Great  Discov 
erers  in  Science.  Carpenter  knows  intimately,  goes  freely 
among,  a  greater  range  &  variety  of  men  than  any  English 
man  I  know — he  has  a  way  of  making  himself  thoroughly  wel 
come  by  the  firesides  of  mechanics  &  factory  workers — his 
own  kith  &  kin  are  aristocratic. 

Giddy  is  taking  singing  lessons  again,  &  hoping  by  the 
time  you  next  see  her  to  be  able  to  contribute  her  share  of  the 
evening's  pleasure.  Percy  is  still  working  away  indomitably 
at  the  "process,"  which  is  gaining  ground  rapidly  on  the 
continent,  &  I  hope  I  may  say  slowly  &  surely  in  England. 
I  see  the  Gilders  now  &  then — indeed  they  are  coming  up  to 
lunch  with  us  to-morrow — Mr.  Gilder1  is  the  better  for  rest — 

'Richard  Watson  Gilder. 

IQI 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

&  they  seem  to  enjoy  England;  but  England  has  done  her  very 
worst  in  the  way  of  climate  ever  since  they  have  been  here. 
O  I  do  long  for  a  little  American  sunshine.  We  met  Henry 
James  at  the  Conways  last  Sunday  &  found  him  one  of  the 
pleasantest  of  talkers.  Rossetti  &  all  your  friends  are  well. 
Please  give  my  love  to  your  brothers  &  sister.  Were  Jessie 
&  Hattie  at  home  in  St.  Louis,  I  wonder,  when  you  were 
there?  Love  from  us  all. 
Good-bye,  Dearest  Friend. 

A.  GILCHRIST. 

Please  give  my  love  to  John  Burroughs  when  you  write  or  see 
him. 


192 


LETTER    LV 
ANNE  GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 

Marley,  Haslemere 

England 
Aug.  22,  '80. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

I  have  had  all  the  welcome  papers  with  accounts  of  your 
doings,  and  to-day  a  nice  long  letter  from  Mrs.  Whitman, 
which  I  much  enjoyed,  giving  me  better  account  of  your 
health  again,  &  of  your  great  enjoyment  of  the  water  travel 
through  Canada.  So  I  hope,  spite  of  drawbacks,  you  will 
return  to  Camden  for  the  winter  quite  set  up  in  body,  as  well 
as  full  of  delightful  memories.  If  only  we  were  at  22nd  St. 
to  welcome  you  back  &  talk  it  all  over  at  tea!  Ah,  those 
evenings!  My  friends  told  me  I  looked  ten  years  younger 
when  I  came  back  from  America  than  when  I  went.  And 
I  am  not  yet  quite  re-acclimatized;  &  what  with  missing 
the  sunshine  &  working  a  little  too  hard,  was  feeling  quite 
knocked  up :  so  Bee  \r  ..isted  on  my  coming  down,  or  rather 
up,  here  to  stay  with  some  very  kind  &  dear  friends.  The 
house  stands  all  alone  on  a  great  heath-covered  [hill,  and 
below  &  around  are  endless  coppices,  so  that  you  step  from 
the  lawn  into  [a]  winding  wood-path,  along  which  I  wander  by 
the  hour:  and  from  my  window  I  look  over  much  such  a  view 
as  we  had  at  Round  Hill  Hotel,  Northampton,  this  time  two 
years,  only  that  with  the  soft  haze  that  is  so  often  spread  over 
our  landscape,  the  distant  hill  looks  more  ghostly  in  the 
moonlight.  My  friend  is  a  noble,  large-hearted,  capable 

193 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

woman,  who  devotes  all  her  life  and  energies  to  keeping 
alive  an  invalid  husband;  and  he  well  deserves  her  care, 
for  he  has  a  beautiful  nature,  too,  &  their  mutual  affection 
is  unbounded.  He  is  just  ordered  by  the  doctors  to  leave  the 
home  they  have  made  for  themselves  up  here — which  is  as 
lovely  as  it  can  be — &  to  spend  two  years  at  least  in  Italy. 
So  it  is  a  sorrowful  time  with  them — they  have  no  children, 
but  have  adopted  a  little  niece.  Our  new  house  is  just  ready 
&  we  are  daily  expecting  our  furniture  from  America.  Herby 
has  been  working  as  usual,  making  good  progress  &  has  just 
done  a  beautiful  little  drawing  for  the  new  edition  of  his 
father's  book.  Bee,  you  will  be  glad  to  hear,  has  decided 
to  continue  her  medical  studies  &  is  going  to  be  assistant  to 
a  lady  doctor  at  Edinburgh,  who  is  to  pay  her  sufficient 
salary  to  cover  all  remaining  expenses.  Meanwhile  we  have 
got  her  at  home  for  a  few  weeks  to  help  us  through  with 
the  move  in,  and  a  sad  pinch  it  will  be  to  part  with  her  again. 
Giddy  has  been  paying  a  delightful  visit  to  some  friends  of 
Carpenter's  near  Leeds — a  Quaker  family — the  daughter 
very  lovable  &  admirable.  We  do  not  forget  the  Staffords1 
nor  they  us.  Mont,  often  sends  Herby  a  magazine  or  a 
token.  Love  to  them  when  you  see  them,  &  to  Mr.  &  Mrs. 
Whitman  &  Hattie  &  Jessie  &  kindest  remembrance  to  Dr. 
Bucke.  Send  me  a  line  soon,  dear  Friend — I  think  of  you 
continually  &  know  that  somewhere  &  somehow  we  are  to 
meet  again,  &  that  there  is  a  tie  of  love  between  us  that 
time  &  change  &  death  itself  cannot  touch. 
With  love, 

A.  GILCHRIST. 


iQf  Timber  Creek,  Camden  County,  New  Jersey,  whose  hospitality  helped  Whitman  to  im 
prove  his  health. 


194 


LETTER    L V  I 

HERBERT       H.       GILCHRIST      TO      WALT 
WHITMAN 

Keats  Corner,  England 
12  Well  Road,  Hampstead,  London 

November  ^otb,  1880. 
MY^PEAR  WALT: 

Your  postcard  came  to  hand  some  little  time  ago.  I  was 
pleased  to  get  it,  to  hear  of  your  being  well,  &  with  your 
friends.  I  have  been  extremely  busy  seeing  after  the  new 
edition  of  my  father's  book;1  the  work  of  seeing  such  a  richly 
illustrated  "  edition  de  luxe"  through  the  press  was  enormous, 
but  it  is  done!  The  binders  are  now  doing  their  work,  & 
ne^xt  Tuesday  the  reviewers  will  be  doing  theirs — I  defy  them 
to  find  any  fault  with  the  book.  I  dare  say  you  think  it 
"tall"  talk,  but  I  think  that  it  is  the  most  perfectly  gotten  up 
book  that  I  ever  have  seen.  My  mother  has  written  an 
admirable  memoir  of  my  father  at  the  end  of  the  second  vol. 

POND  MUSINGS 
(Pen  sketch  of  a  butterfly) 

by 
WALT  WHITMAN 

I  thought  that  this  was  to  be  the  title  of  your  prose  volume. 
I  will  undertake  the  illustrations,  choosing  the  paper  (hand 
made),  everything  except  the  expense  of  reproducing,  etc. 

^The  second  edition  of  Alexander  Gilchrist's  "William  Blake." 

195 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

I  should  say  London  is  the  place  to  have  things  executed  in: 
if  you  wish  to  give  photos  they  must  be  drawn  by  an  artist 
and  reproduced;  no  photo  ever  looked  well  in  a  book  yet! 
they  haven't  decorative  importance  and  don't  blend  with 
type.  I  should  suggest  that  we  should  imitate  the  artistic 
size  &  style  of  your  earliest  edition  of  "Leaves  of  G.,"  a  large, 
thin,  flat  volume,  a  fanciful,  but  as  inexpensive  as  possible, 
cover  written  in  gold  on  blue,  a  waterlily  say:  but  I  could 
think  this  over.  I  will  design  fanciful  tailpieces  to  be  woven 
in  with  the  text ;  as  a  frontispiece  the  drawing  that  I  gave  you, 
retouched  by  me,  and  reproduced  by  the  Typographic  Etch 
ing  Company,  23  Farringdon  street,  London,  E.  C.  All 
these  are  only  suggestions,  which  I  am  prepared  to  execute 
in  right  earnest  thought.  I  read  your  letter  to  mother  with 
interest.  We  like  our  new  house  so  much,  &  I  am  sure  that 
you  would.  You  must  come  and  stay  with  us  &  stroll  on 
Hampstead  Heath,  &  ride  down  into  London  upon  an  omni 
bus  &  sit  to  some  good  sculptor  here  in  London  (Boem  say). 
And  you  yourself  could  make  arrangements  with  the  pub 
lishers.  With  remembrance  to  friends, 

HERBERT  H.  GILCHRIST. 


196* 


LETTER     LVII 

ANNE    GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 

Keats  Corner 
Well  Rd.}  Hampstead 

Apr.  1 8,  '8 1. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

I  have  just  been  sauntering  in  our  little  but  sunny  garden 
which  slopes  to  the  South — surveying  with  much  satis 
faction  some  fruit  trees — plum,  green  gage,  pear,  cherry, 
apple — which  we  have  just  had  planted  to  train  up  against 
the  house  and  fence — in  which  fashion  fruit  ripens  much  bet 
ter  with  our  English  modicum  of  sunshine,  besides  taking  no 
room  &  casting  no  shade  over  your  little  bit  of  ground- 
Then  we  have  filled  our  large  window  with  flowers  in  Dots 
which  make  the  room  smell  as  delicious  as  a  garden.  Giddy 
is  assiduous  in  keeping  them  well  watered  &  tended. — 
Welcome  was  your  postcard — with  the  little  rain-bird's 
coy  note  in  it.  But  I  had  not  before  heard  of  your  illness, 
dear  friend — the  letter  before,  you  spoke  of  being  unusually 
well,  as  I  trust  you  are  again  now,  &  enjoying  the  spring.  I 
am  well  again  so  far  as  digestion  &c.  goes;  but  bronchitis 
asthma  of  a  chronic  kind  still  trouble  me.  My  breath  is  so 
short  I  cannot  walk,  which  is  a  privation.  I  am  going, 
at  the  beginning  of  June,  to  stay  with  Bee  in  Edinburgh,  as 
she  will  not  have  any  holiday  or  be  able  to  come  &  see  us  this 
year,  &  much  am  I  longing  to  be  with  her.  Have  you  begun 
to  have  any  summer  thoughts,  dear  Walt?  And  do  they  turn 
towards  England,  &  our  nest  therein?  Yes,  I  have  received 

197 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

&  have  enjoyed  all  the  papers  &  cuttings — dearly  like  what 
you  said  of  Carlyle.  Everyone  here  is  speaking  bitterly  of  the 
harsh  judgments  &  sarcastic  descriptions  of  people  in  the 
"  reminiscenses."  But  I  know  that  at  bottom  his  heart  was 
genial  and  good  &  that  he  wrote  those  in  a  miserable  mood— 
&  never  looked  at  them  again  afterwards.  I  hope  you  re 
ceived  the  little  memoir  of  my  husband  all  right.  Herby  is 
very  busy  with  a  drawing  of  you — hopes  that  with  the  many 
sketches  he  made,  &  the  vivid  impress  on  his  memory  &  the 
help  of  photographs,  it  will  be  good.  I  wish  he  had  possessed 
as  much  power  with  the  brush  when  he  was  in  America  as  he 
has  now — he  is  making  very  great  progress  in  mastery  of  the 
technique.  I  observe,  too,  that  he  reads  &  dwells  upon  your 
poems — especially  the  "Walt  Whitman" — with  growing 
frequency  &  delight.  We  often  say,  "Won't  Walt  like  sit 
ting  in  that  sunny  window?  "  or  "  by  that  cheery  open  fire"  or 
"  sauntering  on  the  heath" — &  picture  you  here  in  a  thousand 
different  ways.  I  believe  Maggie  Lesley  is  coming  from 
Paris,  where  she  is  studying  art  in  good  earnest,  at  the  begin 
ning  of  May,  &  then  will  come  and  spend  a  few  days  with 
us.  Welcome  are  American  friends!  The  Buxton  Forman's 
took  tea  with  us  last  week  &  we  had  pleasant  talk  of  you  &  of 
Dr.  Bucke.  Mrs.  Forman  is  a  sincere,  sympathetic,  motherly 
woman  whom  you  would  like.  The  Rossetti's  too  have 
been  to  see  us — we  didn't  think  William  in  the  best  health  or 
spirits — &  his  wife  was  not  looking  well  either,  but  then 
another  baby  is  just  coming. 

This  Easter  time  the  poorest  of  London  working  folk  flock 
in  enormous  numbers  to  Hampstead  Heath;  it  is  a  sight 
that  would  interest  you — they  are  rougher  &  noisier  &  poorer 
than  such  folks  in  America — &  the  men  more  prone  to  get 
the  worse  for  drink — but  there  is  a  good  deal  of  fun  &  merri 
ment  too — the  girls  &  boys  racing  about  on  donkeys  (who 
have  a  pretty  hard  time  of  it) — plenty  of  merry-go-rounds — 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

&  enjoyment  of  the  pure  air  &  sunshine,  &  such  sights,  more 
than  they  know.  The  light  is  failing,  dearest  friend;  so 
with  love  from  us  all,  good-bye. 

ANNE   GILCHRIST. 

Friendliest  greeting  to  your  brother  &  sister  &  to  Hattie  & 
Jessie  when  you  write  &  to  the  Staff ords. 


199 


LETTER     LVI  I  I 

HERBERT    H.    GILCHRIST    TO    WALT 
WHITMAN 

Keats  Corner,  Well  Road 
North  London 
Hampstead,  England 
June  $th,  1 88 1,  Sunday  afternoon 

5   P.  M. 
MY  DEAR  WALT: 

You  don't  write  me  a  letter  nor  take  any  notice  of  my 
magnificent  offers  concerning  "Pond  Musings",  etc.  how 
ever,  I  will  forgive  you  this  oft-repeated  offence.  I  often 
think  of  you,  very  often  of  America  and  things  generally 
there,  and  nearly  always  with  pleasure. 

My  mother  is  away  staying  with  Beatrice  in  Edinburgh 
city,  recruiting  her  health,  which  has  most  sadly  needed  it  of 
late.  So  I  and  Grace  &  a  new  Scotch  lassie,  one  Margaret, 
who  officiates  as  servant  most  efficaciously  too,  I  can  tell 
you  (such  scrubbing  &  cleaning  as  you  never  saw  the  like) 
we  three,  I  say,  are  alone  at  Keats  Corner;  cool  sitting  here  in 
our  long  drawing-room  (hung  with  innumerable  pictures 
as  of  yore),  although  it  has  been  scorchingly  hot  this  past 
month.  The  morning  I  spend  sketching  on  Hampstead 
Heath,  which  is  lovely  just  now,  all  the  May- trees  are 
in  full  bloom  the  gorse  &  broom  are  a  blaze  of  yellow,  the 
rooks  fly  constantly  by  a  quarter  of  a  mile  (seemingly)  over 
head,  the  sly  fellows  giving  some  side  like  dart  when  you  look 
up  at  them  even  at  that  height.  I  am  painting  one  of 

200 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

them;  so  I  have  to  look  up  pretty  often.  In  the  early  morn 
ing  the  nightingale  sings,  oh,  so  sweetly,  long  trills  &  roulades 
in  the  most  accomplished  manner. 

Last  Wednesday  Miss  Ellen  Terry,  whose  name  you  are 
doubtless  familiar  with  as  being  the  leading  actress  in  London, 
well,  she  called  upon  me  to  ask  my  advice  or  opinion  of  a 
drawing  connected  with  my  father's  book.  Ellen  Terry 
expressed  herself  highly  interested  in  our  house,  pictures, 
decorations  and  so  forth.  Her  manner  was  a  little  stagey,  but 
graceful  to  the  extreme,  and  you  could  see  peeping  out  of 
this  theatric  manner  a  kind,  good  heart,  oh,  so  kind,  I  feel 
as  if  I  would  do  anything  for  her,  her  manners  were  so  win 
ning.  "  Will  you  come  to  the  stage  entrance  of  the  Lyceum 
some  day  soon  and  you  shall  have  stalls  for  two;  now  will 
you  come?  Do/'  Were  her  last  words  to  Grace.  I  called 
on  her  at  Kensington  last  week,  returning  the  drawing,  and 
I  was  so  charmed  with  two  beautiful  children  of  hers,  a  tall, 
fair  girl,  a  pretty  mixture  of  shyness  and  self-possession 
that  quite  won  me.  She  too  I  should  fancy  will  be  a  great 
actress  some  day,  she  has  such  a  bright  face,  The  boy, 
Master  Ted,  was  nice  too. 

Well,  I  gave  Ellen  Terry  a  proof  of  a  drawing  that  I  have 
just  completed  for  Dr.  Bucke's  book — a  job  I  got  through 
Buxton  Forman,  a  great  friend  of  Bucke's,  done  con  amore 
on  my  part.  This  drawing  has  been  beautifully  reproduced 
by  the  new  photo  intaglio-process.  I  hope  Dr.  Bucke  will 
like  it,  but  I  should  not  expect  great  things  from  him  in  that 
line,  judging  from  the  twopenny  hapenny  little  pen  &  ink 
sketch  by  Waters  which  he  sent  over  in  the  first  instance; 
however,  Forman  rescued  him  from  that  &  so  far  he  has 
been  guided  by  his  friend.  Whether  he  will  when  he  sees 
my  drawing,  we  neither  of  us  know;  but  both  feel  to  have 
done  our  best  in  the  matter.  I  said  that  Ellen  Terry  must 
ask  for  you  when  she  goes  to  America,  which  she  contemplates 

201 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

some  day.  I  have  sold  the  last  drawing  I  made  in  New  York 
of  you  for  £  10.  los  to  Buxton  Forman  ($50.  odd).  Church 
bells  have  just  commenced  chiming  in  the  distance,  a  sound 
I  like  better  than  the  parsons.  I  hear  that  the  young  Ameri 
can  artists  are  doing  capitally  filling  their  pockets.  My 
cousin  Sidney  Thomas  is,  or  was,  in  America,  a  good  deal 
lionized,  I  understand.  If  at  any  time  you  favour  me  with 
a  letter  let  it  be  a  letter  and  not  a  postcard  please.  I  have 
been  reading  Carlyle's  reminiscences — good  stuff  in  them, 
brilliant  touches,  but  dreadfully  morbid,  don't  you  think? 
&  one  shuts  the  book  up  with  a  feeling  that  in  some  respect 
one  Carlyle  is  enough  in  the  world:  &  yet  in  some  respects  a 
million  wouldn't  be  too  many.  I  often  think  of  your  remark 
to  us  one  day  that  tolerance  is  the  rarest  quality  in  the  world. 

Interested  in  those  Boston  scraps  you  send  my  mother. 
You  have  always  been  pretty  well  received  in  Boston,  have 
you  not — I  mean  in  the  Emerson  days?  Pity  that  when 
Emerson  is  no  more  there  will  be  no  fine  portrait  of  him  in 
existence;  there  was  a  nobility  stamped  upon  his  face  that  I 
never  saw  the  like  of,  and  which  should  hawe  been  caught 
and  stamped  forever  on  canvas. 

We  all  see  something  of  the  Formans  &  all  like  them;  they 
have  so  much  character,  rather  unusual  in  literary  folk  of  the 
lighter  sort,  I  fancy;  but  there  is  something  very  fresh  and 
original  about  Forman.  Nice  children  they  have,  too. 
Miss  Blind  is  bringing  out  a  volume  of  poems;  why  will 
people  all  imagine  they  can  write  poetry?  William  Rossetti 
is  writing  a  hundred  sonnets — writes  one  a  day;  one  about 
John  Brown  is  not  bad:  and  many  are  instructive,  but  are  in 
no  sense  poems.  I  am  going  down  to  tea  &  must  not  keep 
Grace  waiting  any  longer.  Love  to  you. 

HERBERT  H.  GILCHRIST. 


202 


LETTER     LIX 

ANNE    GILCHRIST   TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

12  Well  Road,  Hampstead 

London,  Dec.   14,  '81. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

Your  welcome  letter  to  hand.  I  have  longed  for  a  word 
from  you — could  not  write  myself1 — was  stricken  dumb — 
nay,  there  is  nothing  but  silence  for  me  still.  Herby  wrote 
to  Mrs.  Stafford  first,  thinking  that  so  the  shock  would  come 
less  abruptly  to  you. 

I  heard  of  you  at  Concord  in  a  kind  long  letter  from  Fred 
erick  Holland,  with  whose  wife  you  had  some  conversation. 
Indeed  all  that  sympathy  and  warm  &  true  words  of  love  & 
sorrow  &  highest  admiration  &  esteem  for  my  darling  could 
do  to  comfort  me  I  have  had — and  most  &  best  from  America. 
And  many  of  her  poor  patients  at  Edinburgh  went  sobbing 
from  the  door  when  they  heard  they  should  see  her  no  more. 

The  report  of  your  health  is  comforting  dear  friend- 
Mine  too  is  better — I  am  able  to  take  walks  again — though 
still  liable  to  sudden  attacks  of  difficult  breathing. 

Herby  is  working  hard — has  just  been  disappointed  over  a 
competition  design  which  he  sent  in  to  the  Royal  Academy — 
a  very  poor  &  specious  work  obtaining  the  premium — but  is 
no  whit  discouraged  &  has  no  need  to  be,  for  he  is  making 
great  progress — works  hard,  loves  his  work  &  is  of  the  stuff 
where  of  great  painters  are  made,  I  am  persuaded — so  he 
can  afford  to  wait.  Giddy  is  not  quite  so  well  &  strong  as  I 

Because  of  the  death  of  her  daughter  Beatrice. 

203 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

could  wish,  but  there  seems  nothing  serious.  She  is  work 
ing  diligently  at  the  development  of  her  voice — &  is  learning 
German.  Dr.  Bucke's  friend,  Mr.  Buxton  Forman,  &  his 
wife  areVery  warm,  staunch  friends  of  Herby's. 

Please  give  my  love  to  your  sister,  and  tell  her  that  her 
good  letter  spoke  the  right  words  to  me  &  that  I  shall  write 
before  very  long.  Thanks  for  the  paper,  dear  friend — &  for 
those  that  came  when  I  was  too  overwhelmed  but  which  I 
have  since  read  with  deep  interest — those  about  your  visit  to 
your  birthplace.  With  love  from  us  all— good-bye,  dearest 
Friend. 

A.  GILCHRIST. 


204 


LETTER     L  X 

ANNE    GILCHRIST   TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

12  Well  Road 

Jan  29,  '82 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

Your  letter  to  Herby  was  a  real  talk  with  you.  I  don't 
know  why  I  punish  myself  by  writing  to  you  so  seldom  now, 
for  indeed  to  be  near  you,  even  in  that  way  would  do  me  good 
— often  &  often  do  I  wish  we  were  back  in  America  near 
you.  As  I  write  this  I  am  sitting  to  Herby  for  my  portrait 
again — he  has  never  satisfied  himself  yet:  but  this  one 
seems  coming  on  nicely — and  so  is  the  Consuelo  picture. 
Another  one  he  has  in  his  mind  is  to  be  called  "The  tea- 
party/'  and  it  is  to  be  the  old  group  round  our  table  in 
Philadelphia — you  &  me  and  dear  Bee  &  Giddy  &  himself. 
He  thinks  that  what  with  memory  &  photograph  &  the  studies 
he  made  when  with  you,  he  will  be  able  to  put  you  &  my 
darling  on  the  canvas. 

Giddy's  voice  is  developing  into  a  really  fine  contralto  & 
she  has  the  work  in  her  to  become  an  artist,  I  think  &  will 
turn  out  one  of  the  tortoises  who  outstrip  the  hares.  Percy 
and  Norah  are  spending  the  winter  in  London  (at  Kensington) 
— and  we  can  get  round  by  train  in  half  an  hour;  so  I  often 
see  them  and  the  dear  little  man.  Do  you  remember  the 
Miss  Chases — two  pleasant  maiden  ladies  who  took  tea 
with  us  once  in  Philadelphia  &  talked  about  Sojourner 
Truth?  One  of  the  sisters  is  in  London  this  winter  &  has 
been  several  times  to  see  us.  The  birds  are  beginning  to 

205 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

sing  very  sweetly  here — &  our  room  is  full  of  the  perfume  of 
spring  flowers — indoor  ones.  Did  dear  Bee  tell  you,  in  the 
long  letter  she  once  wrote  you,  how  much  she  loved  the 
Swiss  ladies  with  whom  she  made  her  home  while  in  Berne? 
A  more  tender  &  beautiful  love  and  sorrow  than  that  with 
which  they  cherish  the  memory  of  her  never  grewr  in  any 
heart.  I  think  you  will  like  to  see  some  of  their  letters — 
please  return  them,  for  they  are  very  precious  to  me  (the 
little  matters  they  thank  me  for  are  some  of  dear  Bee's 
things  which  I  sent  them  for  tokens).  Love  to  your  sister 
&  brother.  How  are  Mr.  Marvin  &  Mr.  Burroughs?  Best 
love  from  us  all .  Good-bye,  dear  Friend . 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 


206 


LETTER     LX  I 


ANNE   GILCHRIST   TO   WALT   WHITMAN 


12  mil  Road 
Hampstead 
May  8tb,  '82. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

Herby  went  to  David  Bognes1  about  a  week  ago:  he  him 
self  was  out,  but  H.  saw  the  head  man,  who  reported  that  the 
sale  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass"  was  progressing  satisfactorily.  I 
hope  you  have  received,  or  will  receive,  tangible  proof  of  the 
same.  Bognes  is  a  young  publisher,  but,  I  believe  from  what 
I  hear,  a  man  to  be  relied  on.  His  father  was  the  publisher 
of  my  husband's  first  literary  venture  &  behaved  honourably. 
Herby  brought  away  for  me  a  copy  of  the  new  edition.  I  like 
the  type  like  that  of  '73,  &  the  pale  green  leaf  it  is  folded  in 
so  to  speak.  I  find  a  few  new  friends  to  love  —  perhaps  I 
have  not  yet  found  them  all  out.  But  you  must  not  expect 
me  to  take  kindly  to  any  changes  in  the  titles  or  arrangement 
of  the  old  beloved  friends.  I  love  them  too  dearly  —  every 
word  &  look  of  them  —  for  that.  For  instance,  I  want  "Walt 
Whitman  "  instead  of  "  Myself  "  at  the  top  of  the  page.  Also 
my  own  longing  is  always  for  a  chronological  arrangement,  if 
change  at  all  there  is  to  be;  for  that  at  once  makes  biography 
of  the  best  kind.  What  deaths,  dear  Friend!  As  for  me,  my 
heart  is  already  gone  over  to  the  other  side  of  the  river,  so 
that  sometimes  I  feel  a  kind  of  rejoicing  in  the  swelling  of  the 
ranks  of  the  great  company  there.  Darwin,  with  his 

^Whitman's  London  publisher. 

2O7 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

splendid  day's  work  here  gently  closed;  Rossetti,  whose  bril 
liant  genius  had  got  entangled  in  a  premature  physical  decay, 
so  that  Us  day's  work  was  over  too!  In  a  letter  to  me,  Wil 
liam,  who  was  the  best,  most  faithful  &  loving  of  brothers  to 
him,  says,  "  I  doubt  whether  he  would  ever  have  regained  that 
energy  of  body  &  concentration  of  mental  resource  which 
could  have  enabled  him  to  resume  work  at  his  full  &  wonted 
power.  Without  these  faculties  at  ready  command  my  dear 
Gabriel  would  not  have  been  himself/'  Edward  Carpenter's 
father,  too,  is  gone,  but  he  at  a  ripe  age  without  disease — 
sank  gently. 

The  photographs  I  enclose  are  but  poor  suggestions — 
please  give  one  to  Mrs.  Whitman  with  my  love,  or  if  you  pre 
fer  to  keep  both,  I  will  send  her  others.  Does  the  idea  ever 
come  into  your  head,  dear  Friend,  of  spending  a  little  time 
this  summer  or  autumn  in  your  English  home  at  Hampstead? 

Herby  is  well  and  working  happily.  So  is  Grace.  Little 
grandson  &  his  parents  away  in  Worcestershire. 

It  is  indescribably  lovely  spring  weather  here  just  now. 
A  carpenter  near  us  has  a  sky-lark  in  a  cage  which  sings  as 
jubilantly  as  if  it  were  mounting  into  the  sky,  &  is  so  tame 
that  when  he  takes  it  out  of  the  cage  to  wash  its  little  claws, 
which  are  apt  to  get  choked  up  with  earth,  in  warm  water,  it 
breaks  out  singing  in  his  hand!  Love  from  us  all,  dearest 
Friend.  Good-bye. 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 

Affectionate  greetings  to  your  brother  &  sister  &  Hattie  & 

Jessie. 

Do  you  ever  see  Mr.  Marvin?    If  so,  give  our  love,  we  hope 

to  see  him  one  day. 


208 


LETTER     LX I  I 

ANNEGILCHRST    TO     WALT    WHITMAN 

Keats  Corner 
Well  Rd.,  Hampstead,  London 

Nov.  24,  '82. 
DEAREST  FRIEND: 

You  have  long  ere  this,  I  hope,  received  Herby's  letter 
telling  of  the  safe  arrival  of  the  precious  copy  of  "Specimen 
Days,"  with  the  portraits:  it  makes  me  very  proud.  Your 
father  had  a  fine  face  too — there  is  something  in  it  that  takes 
hold  of  me  &  that  seems  to  be  a  kind  of  natural  background 
or  substratum  to  the  radiant  sweetness  of  that  other  sacred 
&  beloved  face  completing  your  parentage.  I  like  heartily  too 
the  new  portraits  of  you:  they  are  all  wanted  as  different 
aspects:  but  the  two  that  remain  my  favourites  are  the  por 
trait  taken  about  30  without  coat  of  any  kind,  and  the  one 
you  sent  me  in  '69 — next  to  those  I  love  these  two  latest — 
&  in  some  respects  better,  because  they  are  the  Walt  I  saw 
&  had  such  happy  hours  with.  The  second  copy  of  book  & 
my  lending  one,  has  come  safe — too — and  the  card  that  told 
of  your  attack  of  illness,  &  the  welcome  news  of  your  recovery 
in  the  Paper;  &  I  have  been  fretting  with  impatience  at  my 
own  dumbness — but  tied  to  as  many  hours  a  day  writing  as 
I  could  possibly  manage,  at  my  little  book  now  (last  night) — 
finished,  all  but  proofs,  so  that  I  can  take  my  pleasure  in 
"Specimen  Days"  at  last;  but  before  doing  that  must  have  a 
few  words  with  you,  dearest  Friend.  First  a  gossip.  Do 
you  remember  Maggie  Lesley?  She  came  to  see  us  on  her 

209 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

way  to  Paris,  where  she  is  working  all  alone  &  very  earnestly 
to  get  through  training  as  an  artist — then  going  to  start  in  a 
studio  of  her  own  in  Philadelphia.  She,  like  my  mother's 
sister,  are  to  me  fine,  lovable  samples  of  American  women — 
in  whom,  I  mean,  I  detect,  like  the  distinctive  aroma  of  a 
flower,  something  special — that  is  American — a  decisive  new 
quality  to  old-world  perceptions.  Herby  is  working  away 
still  chiefly  at  the  Consuelo  picture — has  got  a  very  beautiful 
model  to-day  sitting  to  him.  His  summer  work  was  down  in 
Warwickshire,  making  sketches — &  very  charming  ones  they 
are,  of  George  Eliot's  native  scenes — one  of  a  garden-nook — 
up  steep,  old,  worn  stone  steps  bordered  with  flowers  that 
is  enticing — it  will  make  a  lovely  background  for  a  figure 
picture. — Giddy's  voice  is  growing  in  richness  &  strength — & 
she  works  with  all  her  heart,  hoping  one  day  to  be  a  real 
artist  vocally — in  church  &  oratorio  music.  She  will  not 
have  power  or  dramatic  ability  for  opera — nor  can  I  wish  that 
she  had;  there  are  so  many  thorns  with  the  roses  in  that 
path.  I  fear  you  will  be  a  loser  by  Bogne's  bankruptcy. 
Did  I  tell  you  that  among  our  friends  one  of  your  warmest 
admirers  is  Henry  Holmes,  the  great  violinist  (equal  [to] 
Joachim  some  think — we  among  them).  Per.  &  wife  & 
little  grandson  all  well.  My  love  to  brother  &  sister  &  to 
Hattie  [&]  Jessie.  Good-bye,  dear  Walt.  I  hope  to  write 
more  &  better  soon. 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 
Greetings  to  the  Staffords. 


210 


LETTER     LX I  I  I 

ANNE    GILCHRIST    TO   WALT    WHIT  MA  N 

12  Well  Rd. 
Hampstead 
Jan.  27, '83. 

It  is  not  for  want  of  thinking  of  you,  dear  Walt,  that  I 
write  but  seldom:  for  indeed  my  thoughts  are  chiefly  occupied 
with  you  &  your  other  self — your  Poems — &  with  struggles 
to  say  a  few  words  that  I  think  want  saying  about  them; 
that  might  help  some  to  their  birthright  who  now  stand  off, . 
either  ignorant  or  misapprehending. 

We  all  go  on  much  as  usual. 

Feb.  13.  I  wonder  if  you  will  like  a  true  story  of  Lady 
Dilke  that  I  heard  the  other  day — I  do:  It  was  before  her 
marriage.  She  was  a  handsome  young  heiress,  a  daring 
horsewoman,  fond  of  hunting.  There  was  a  man,  weakly  & 
of  good  position,  who  had  behaved  very  basely  &  cruelly 
to  a  young  girl  in  her  neighbourhood,  &  when  (as  is  the 
case  in  England)  half  the  county  was  assembled  on  the 
hunting  field,  Lady  D.  faced  him  &  said  in  a  voice  that  could 
be  heard  afar,  "  Sir  you  are  a  black-guard,  &  if  these  gentle- 
'men  had  the  right  spirit  in  them  they  would  horsewhip  you." 
JHe  looked  at  her  with  effrontery  &  made  a  mocking  bow. 
"But,"  she  continued,  "since  they  won't,  I  will" — and  she 
cut  him  across  the  face  with  her  riding  whip;  upon  which  he 
turned  and  rode  off  the  field,  like  a  dog  with  his  tail  between 
his  legs,  &  reappeared  in  that  neighbourhood  no  more.  She 
was  a  woman  much  beloved — died  at  the  birth  of  her  first 

211 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

child  (from  too  much  chloroform  having  been  given  her). 
Her  husband  was  heart-broken.  I  see  you,  too,  are  having 
floods.  With  us  it  pours  five  days  out  of  seven,  &  so  in 
Germany  &  France.  We  have  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Arabella  Buckley,  who  has  just  written  an  interesting  article 
about  Darwin,  whom  she  knew  well,  for  the  Century.  She 
says  his  was  the  most  entirely  beautiful  &  perfect  nature  she 
ever  came  in  contact  with.  How  I  wish  we  could  have  a 
glimpse  of  each  other,  dear  Friend — half  an  hour  talk — nay, 
a  good  long  look  &  a  hand-shake.  Herby  is  overhead  paint 
ing  in  his  studio — such  a  pleasant  room.  How  is  John 
Burroughs?  We  owe  him  a  letter  &  thanks  for  a  good  art. 
on  Carlyle.  Love  to  you,  dearest  friend. 
Hearty  remembrances  to  your 
brother  &  sister  &  Hattie 
&  Jessie. 

A.  G. 


212 


LETTER     LXI  V 

HERBERT      H.      GILCHRIST      TO      WALT 
WHITMAN 

Keats  Corner 
Well  Road,  Hampstead,  London,  England 

April  29^/83. 
MY  DEAR  WALT: 

Your  card  to  hand  last  night,  with  its  sad  account  of 
dear  Mrs.  Stafford's  health;  but  what  the  doctor  says  is 
cheering.  I  wonder,  though,  what  the  doctor  would  call 
good  weather — mild  spring,  I  suppose. 

Very  glad,  my  dear  old  Walt,  to  see  your  strong  familiar 
handwriting  again;  it  does  one  good,  it's  so  individual  that  it 
is  next  to  seeing  you.  Right  glad  to  hear  of  your  good  health 
— had  an  idea  that  you  were  not  so  well  again  this  winter. 
John  Burroughs  was  very  violent  against  my  intaglio;  on 
the  other  hand,  Alma  Tadema — our  great  painter  here — liked 
it  very  much.  I  take  violent  criticism  pretty  philosophically, 
now  that  I  see  how  unreliable  it  nearly  always  is.  John  Bur 
roughs  has  got  a  fixed  idea  about  your  personality,  and  that 
is  that  the  top  of  your  head  is  a  foot  high  and  any  portrait 
that  doesn't  develop  the  "dome"  is  no  portrait. — Curious 
what  eyes  a  man  may  have  for  everything  except  a  picture. 
I  finished  lately  a  life-size  portrait  of  James  Simmons,  J.P., 
a  hunting  (fox)  squire  of  the  old  school — such  a  fine 
old  fellow.  My  portrait  represents  him  standing  firmly,  in  a 
scarlet  hunting-coat  well  stained  with  many  a  wet  chase,  his 
great  whip  tucked  under  his  arm  whilst  buttoning  on  his 

213 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

left  glove,  white  buckskin  trousers  in  shade  relieving  the 
scarlet  coat,  black  velvet  hunting  cap,  dark  rich  blue  back 
ground  to  qualify  and  cool  the  scarlet.  I  wish  you  could 
see  it.  Then  I  have  painted  a  subject  "The  Good  Gray 
Poet's  Gift."  I  have  long  meant  to  build  up  something  of 
you  from  my  studies,  adding  colour.  You  play  a  prominent 
part  in  this  picture — seated  at  table  bending  over  a  nosegay 
of  flowers,  poetizing,  before  presenting  them  to  mother.  I 
am  standing  up  bending  over  the  tea-pot,  with  the  kettle, 
filling  it  up;  opposite  you  sits  Giddy;  out  of  the  window  a 
pretty  view  of  Cannon  place,  Hampstead.  Mater  thinks  it  a 
pretty  picture  and  a  good  likeness  of  you,  just  as  you  used  to 
sit  at  tea  with  us  at  1729  N.  22nd  St.  Now  I  am  going  out 
for  a  stroll  on  Hampstead  Heath.  Have  just  come  in  from  a 
long  ramble  over  the  Heaths — a  lovely  soft  spring  day,  innu 
merable  birds  in  full  song.  I  think  J.  B.  is  right  when 
he  says  that  your  birds  are  more  plaintive  than  ours — it's 
nature's  way  of  compensating  us  for  a  loss  of  sunshine:  what 
would  England  be  without  the  merry  lark,  the  very  embodi 
ment  of  cheeriness.  Are  not  the  Carlyle  &  Emerson  letters 
interesting?  It  seems  to  me  to  be  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
and  pathetic  things  in  literature,  C's  fondness  for  E.  But  all 
Englishmen,  I  must  tell  you,  are  not  grumblers  like  Carlyle; 
he  stands  quite  alone  in  that  quality — look  at  Darwin! 
I  should  be  grateful  for  another  postcard.  With  all  love, 

HERB.  GILCHRIST. 


214 


LETTER     LXV 

A  N  N  E   GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 

Keats  Corner 
Hampstead 

May  6,  '83. 
DEAREST  FRIEND: 

I  feel  as  if  this  beautiful  spring  morning  here  in  England 
must  send  you  greetings  through  me.  Our  sunny  little 
mound  of  garden,  which  runs  down  toward  the  south,  is 
fragrant  with  hyacinths  and  wall-flowers  (beautiful,  tawny, 
reddish,  yellow  fellows  laden  with  rich  perfume) — and  at  the 
bottom  is  a  big  old  cherry  tree — one  mass  of  snowy  blossom; 
in  a  neighbour's  gay  garden  &  beyond  is  a  distant  glimpse 
of  some  tall  elms  just  putting  on  their  first  tender  green: 
our  little  breakfast  room  where  I  always  sit  of  a  morning 
opens  with  glass  doors  into  this  garden.  Herby  is  gone  with 
the  "Sunday  Tramps,"  of  whom  he  is  a  member,  for  a  ten 
or  fifteen-mile  walk.  Said  tramps  are  some  half  dozen 
friends  &  neighbours,  some  of  them  very  learned  professors 
but  genial  good  fellows  withal,  who  agree  to  spend  every 
other  Sunday  morning  in  taking  one  of  their  long  walks  to 
gether — &  a  very  good  time  they  have.  Giddy  is  gone  to 
hear  a  lecture;  our  bonnie  Scotch  girl  is  roasting  the  beef  for 
dinner,  singing  the  while  in  the  kitchen;  and  pussy  &  I  are 
sitting  very  companionable  &  meditative  in  the  little  room 
before  described. 

You  cannot  think,  dear  friend,  what  a  pleasure  it  was  to 
have  a  whole  big  letter  from  you  (not  that  I  despise  Postcards 

215 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

— they  are  good  stop-gaps,  but  not  the  real  thing).  Yes,  I 
have  &  prize  the  article  on  the  Hebrew  Scriptures.  How  I 
wish  you  could  make  up  your  mind  to  spend  your  summer 
holiday  with  us. 

I  am  still  struggling  along,  striving  to  say  something 
which,  if  I  can  say  it  to  my  mind,  will  be  useful — will  clear 
away  a  little  of  the  rubbish  that  hides  you  from  men's  eyes. 
I  hear  the  "Eminent  Women  Series"  is  having  quite  a 
large  sale  in  America.  Good-bye.  Love  to  Mrs.  Whitman. 
Greetings  to  your  brother.  Love  from  us  all  to  you. 

A.  GILCHRIST. 


216 


LETTER     LXVI 

ANNE    GILCHRIST  TO   WALT  WHITMAN 

Keats  Corner 
Hampstead,  Jul.  30, 1883. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

Lazy  me,  that  have  been  thinking  letters  to  you  instead 
of  writing  them!  We  have  Dr.  Bucke's  book  at  last;  could 
not  succeed  in  buying  one  at  Tiirbner's — I  believe  they  all 
sold  directly — but  he  has  sent  us  one.  There  are  some 
things  in  it  I  prize  very  highly — namely,  Helen  Price's 
"Memoranda"  and  Thomas  A.  Gere's.  These  I  like  far 
better  than  any  personal  reminiscences  of  you  I  have  ever 
read  &  I  feel  much  drawn  to  the  writers  of  them.  Also 
your  letter  to  Mrs.  Price  from  the  Hospitals,  dear  Friend. 
That  makes  one  hand-in-hand  with  you — then  &  there — & 
gives  one  a  glimpse  of  a  very  beautiful  friendship.  But 
why  &  why  did  Dr.  Bucke  set  himself  to  counteract  that 
beneficient  law  of  nature's  by  which  the  dust  tends  to  lay 
itself?  And  carefully  gathering  together  again  all  the  rub 
bish  stupid  or  malevolent  that  has  been  written  of  you,  toss 
it  up  in  the  air  again  to  choke  and  blind  or  disgust  as  many 
as  it  may?  What  a  curious  piece  of  perversity  to  mistake 
this  for  candour  &  a  judicial  spirit.1  Then  again,  how  do  I 
hate  all  that  unmeaning,  irrelevant  clatter  about  what 
Rabelais  or  Shakespeare  or  the  ancients  &  their  times  tol 
erated  in  the  way  of  coarseness  or  plainness  of  speech.  As 


iDr.  Bucke.  in  his  "Life  of  Whitman,"  had  reprinted  at  the  end  of  the  volume  many  criticisms 
of  the  poet,  adverse  as  well  as  favourable;  likewise  W.  D.  O'Connor's  "Good  Gray  Poet." 

2I7 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

if  you  wanted  apologizing  for  or  could  be  apologized  for  on 
that  ground!  If  these  poems  are  to  be  tolerated,  I,  for  one, 
could  not  tolerate  them.  If  they  are  not  the  highest  lesson 
that  has  yet  been  taught  in  refinement  &  purity,  if  they  do 
not  banish  all  possibility  of  coarseness  of  thought  &  feeling, 
there  would  be  nothing  to  be  said  for  them.  But  they 
do:  I  am  as  sure  of  that  as  of  my  own  existence.  When  will 
men  begin  to  understand  them? 

We  have  had  pleasant  glimpses  of  several  American 
friends  this  summer — of  Kate  Hillard  for  instance,  who,  by 
the  bye  narrowly  escaped  a  bad  accident  just  at  our  door — 
the  harness  broke  &  the  cab  came  down  on  the  horse  & 
frightened  jiim  so  that  he  bolted — struck  the  cab  against  a 
lamp-post  (happily,  else  it  would  have  been  worse) — over 
turned  them  &  it — but  when  they  crawled  out  no  worse  harm 
was  done  than  a  few  cuts  from  the  glass — &  Kate  &  her  friend 
behaved  very  pluckily,  &  we  had  a  pleasant  evening  together 
after  all.  Then  there  was  Arthur  Peterson,  looking  much  as 
in  the  old  Philadelphia  days:  and  Emma  &  Annie  Lazarus 
— who,  owing  to  some  letters  of  introduction  from  James 
the  novelist,  have  had  a  very  gay  time  indeed — been  quite 
lionized — and  last,  not  least,  Mr.  Dalton  Dorr,  the  curator  of 
the  Pennsylvania  Museum  in  Fairmount  Park — whom  we 
all  liked  much.  He  is  enjoying  his  visit  here  with  all  his  heart 
— is  a  great  enthusiast  for  our  old  Gothic  Cathedrals,  and 
for  everything  beautiful — but  says  there  is  nothing  such  a 
source  of  unceasing  wonder  &  delight  as  riding  about  London 
&  over  the  bridges  &c  on  the  top  of  an  omnibus  watching  the 
endless  flow  of  people — it  is  indeed  a  kind  of  human  Missis 
sippi  or  Niagara. 

The  young  folks  are  busy  packing  up  to  start  for  the  sea 
side.  Herby  wants  a  background  for  a  picture  in  which  green 
turf  &  trees  and  all  the  richness  of  vegetation  come  down  to 
the  very  edge  of  the  sea  and  I  seem  to  remember  such  a  place 

218 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

near  Lynn  Regis,  where  I  was  thirty  years  ago,  when  my 
eldest  child  was  born,  so  they  are  going  to  look  it  up.  We 
hear  the  heat  is  very  tremendous  in  America  this  year.  I 
hope  you  are  as  well  as  ever  able  to  stand  it  &  enjoy  it?  I 
wonder  where  you  are.  Friendly  greetings  to  Mr.  &  Mrs. 
Whitman  &  Hattie  &  Jessie  &  the  Staffords.  Love  to  you, 
dear  Friend,  from  us  all. 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 

My  little  book  on  Mary  Lamb 
just  out — will  send  you  a 
copy  in  a  day  or  two. 


229 


LETTER     LXVII 

ANNE    GILCHRIST   TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

Keats  Corner 
Hampstead 

Oct.  13,  '83. 
DEAREST  FRIEND: 

Long  &  long  does  it  seem  since  I  have  had  any  word  or 
sign  from  you.  I  hope  all  goes  well  &  that  you  have  had  a 
pleasant,  refreshing  summer  trip  somewhere.  All  goes  on 
much  as  usual  with  us. 

Hythe.  Kent.  Oct.  21.  Not  having  felt  very  well  the 
last  month  or  two,  and  Giddy  also  seeming  to  need  a  little 
bracing  up,  we  came  down  to  this  ancient  town  by  the  sea — 
one  of  the  Cinque  Ports — on  Wednesday,  and  much  we  like 
it — a  fine  open  sea — a  delicious  "briny  odour" — and  inland 
much  that  is  curious  and  interesting — for  this  part  of  the 
Kentish  Coast — so  near  to  France — has  innumerable  old 
castles,  forts,  moats,  traces  everywhere  of  centuries  of  war 
fare  and  of  means  of  defence  against  our  great  neighbour. 
It  is  a  fine  hilly,  woody  country,  too,  and  very  picturesque 
these  gray  massive  ruins,  many  of  them  used  now  as  farm 
houses,  look.  The  men  of  Kent  are  very  proud  of  their 
country  and  are  reckoned  a  fine  race — tall,  muscular,  ruddy- 
complexioned,  and  often  too  with  thick,  tawny-red  beards — 
curious  how  in  our  little  island  the  differences  of  race-stock 
are  still  so  discernible — keep  along  this  same  coast  to  the 
west  only  about  a  couple  of  hundred  miles  &  you  come  to 
such  a  different  type — dark — blackest  and  Cornish  men. 

220 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

— I  get  a  nice  letter  now  &  then  from  John  Burroughs.  I 
also  saw  this  summer  two  women  doctors  who  were  very 
kind  &  good  friends  to  my  darling  Bee — Drs.  Pope — twin 
sisters  from  Boston,  whom  it  did  me  good  to  see.  They  work 
hard — have  a  good  practice — &  say  they  don't  know  what  a 
day's  illness  means  so  far  as  they  themselves  are  concerned. 
They  tell  me  also  that  the  women  doctors  are  doing  capital 
work  in  America — and  that  one  of  them,  who  was  with  dear 
Beatrice  at  the  Penn.  Med.  Col.,  Dr.  Alice  Bennett,  is  the 
efficient  head  of  the  woman's  department  of  a  large  lunatic 
asylum.  We  are  getting  on  in  England  too — but  the  field 
where  English  women  doctors  find  the  most  work  &  the  best 
position  is  India,  where  as  the  women  are  not  allowed  by 
their  male  relatives  to  be  attended  by  men,  the  mortality 
was  immense. — Herby  has  taken  a  better  studio  than  our 
house  afforded — both  as  to  light  &  size — &  finds  the  advan 
tage  great.  I  expect  he  is  having  a  delightful  walk  this 
brilliant  morning  with  the  "Hampstead  Tramps" — of  whom 
I  think  I  have  told  you.  They  often  walk  fifteen  miles  or  so 
on  Sunday  morning. 

Such  a  glorious  afternoon  it  has  been  by  the  sea — sapphire 
colour — the  air  brisk  &  elastic,  yet  soft.  To-morrow  Gran 
goes  home  &  I  shall  be  all  alone  here. —  I  hear  of  "  Speci 
men  Days"  in  a  letter  from  Australia — there  will  be  a  large 
audience  for  you  there  some  day,  dear  Friend.  I  like  what 
John  Burroughs  has  been  writing  about  Carlyle  much.  We 
have  had  nothing  but  stupidities  of  late  about  him  here — 
but  there  will  come  a  great  reaction  from  all  this  abuse,  I 
have  no  doubt — he  did  put  so  much  gall  in  his  ink  some 
times,  human  nature  can't  be  expected  to  take  it  altogether 
meekly.  I  hope  you  received  my  little  book  safely.  I 
should  be  a  hypocrite  if  I  pretended  not  to  care  whether  you 
found  patience  to  read  it — for  I  grew  to  love  Mary  &  Charles 
Lamb  so  much  during  my  task  that  I  want  you  to  love  them 

221 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

too— &  to  see  what  a  beautiful  friendship  was  theirs  with 
Coleridge. 

How  are  Mr.  &  Mrs.  Whitman  and  Hattie  &  Jessie?    Send 
me  a  few  words  soon. 
Good-bye,  dearest  Friend. 

ANN  GILCHRIST. 


322 


LETTER       LXVIII 

ANNE    GILCHRIST   TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

Keats  Corner 
Hampstead 

April  5,  '84. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

Those  few  words  of  yours  to  Herby  "tasted  good"  to  us — 
few,  but  enough,  seeing  that  we  can  fill  out  between  the 
lines  with  what  you  have  given  us  of  yourself  forever  &  always 
in  your  books — &  that  is  how  I  comfort  myself  for  having  so 
few  letters.  But  I  turn  many  wistful  thoughts  toward 
America,  and  were  not  I  &  mine  bound  here  by  unseverable 
ties,  did  we  not  seem  to  grow  &  belong  here  as  by  a  kind  of 
natural  destiny  that  has  to  be  fulfilled  very  cheerfully,  could 
I  make  America  my  home  for  the  sake  of  being  near  you  in 
body  as  I  am  in  heart  &  soul — but  Time  has  good  things  in 
store  for  us  sooner  or  later,  I  doubt  not.  I  could  hardly 
express  to  you  how  welcome  is  the  thought  of  death  to  me— 
not  in  the  sense  of  any  discontent  with  life — but  as  life  with 
fresh  energies  &  wider  horizon  &  hand  in  hand  again  with 
those  that  are  gone  on  first. 

Herby  found  the  little  bit  of  gray  cloth  very  useful — but 
one  day  save  him  an  old  suit.  Your  figure  in  the  picture 
is,  I  think,  a  fair  suggestion  of  one  aspect  of  you;  but  not, 
could  not  of  course  be,  an  adequate  portrait.  He  will  never 
rest  till  he  has  done  his  best  to  achieve  that.  As  soon  as  he 
can  afford  it  (for  it  is  a  very  slow  business  indeed  for  a 
young  artist  to  make  money  in  England,  though  when  he 

223 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

does  begin  he  is  better  paid  than  in  America)  he  means  to  run 
over  to  see  you.  He  says  he  should  like  always  to  spend  his 
winters  in  New  York.  I  say  how  very  highly  I  prize 
that  last  slip  you  sent  me,  "A  backward  glance  on  my  own 
road"?  It  both  corroborates  &  explains  much  that  I  feel 
very  deeply. — If  you  are  seeing  Mrs.  Whitman,  please  say 
her  letter  was  a  pleasure  &  that  I  shall  write  again  before 
very  long.  I  feel  as  if  this  letter  would  never  find  you — be 
sure  &  let  us  know  your  whereabouts. 

Remembrance  &  love. 

Good-bye,  dear  Walt. 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 


224 


LETTER     LXIX 

ANNE   GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 

Hampstead 

May  2,  '84. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

Your  card  (your  very  voice  &  touch,  drawing  me  across 
the  Atlantic  close  beside  you)  was  put  into  my  hand  just 
as  I  was  busy  copying  out  "With  husky,  haughty  lips  O  sea" 
to  pin  into  my  "Leaves  of  Grass."  I  hardly  think  there  is  any 
thing  grander  there.  I  think  surely  they  must  see  that  that 
is  the  very  Soul  of  Nature  uttering  itself  sublimely. 

Who  do  you  think  came  to  see  us  on  Sunday?  Professor 
Dowden.1  And  I  know  not  when  I  have  set  eyes  on  a  more 
beautiful  personality.  I  think  you  would  be  as  much 
attracted  towards  him  as  I  was.  It  was  he  who  told  me 
(full  of  enthusiasm)  of  the  Poems  in  Harper's  which  I  had  not 
seen  or  heard  of.  We  had  a  very  happy  two  or  three <  hours 
together,  talking  of  you  &  looking  through  Blake's  drawings. 
He  is  a  tall  man,  complexion  tanned  &  healthy,  nose  finely 
modelled,  dark  eyes  with  plenty  of  life  &  meaning  in  them, 
hair  grayish — I  should  think  he  was  between  forty  &  fifty 
— but  says  his  father  is  still  a  fine  hale  old  man. 

Herby  disappointed  again  this  year  of  getting  anything 
into  the  R.  Academy. 

I  think  I  like  the  idea  of  the  shanty,  if  you  have  any  one 
to  take  good  care  of  you,  to  cook  nicely,  keep  all  neat  &  clean 
&c.  I  wonder  if  I  have  ever  been  in  Mickle  St.  I,  still 

1  Edward  Dowden,  of  the.University  of  Dublin. 

225 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

busy,  still  hammering  away  to  see  if  I  can  help  those  that 
"  balk"  at  "Leaves  of  Grass".  Perhaps  you  will  smile  at  me — 
at  any  rate  it  bears  good  fruit  to  me — I  seem  to  be  in  a  man 
ner  living  with  you  the  while. 

Everything  full  of  beauty  just  now  here,  as  no  doubt  it  is 
with  you. 

Good-bye,  dearest  friend — don't  forget  the  letter  that  is 
to  come  soon.  Love  from  us  all,  love  &  again  love  from 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 


226 


LETTER     LXX 

ANNE    GILCHRIST    TO    WALT    WHITMAN 

Keats  Corner 

Aug.  5,  '84. 
DEAREST  FRIEND: 

The  notion  [that]  one  is  going  to  write  a  nice  long  letter  is 
fatal  to  writing  at  all.  And  so  I  mean  to  scribble  something, 
somehow,  a  little  oftener  &  make  up  in  quantity  for  quality! 
For  after  all  the  great  thing,  the  thing  one  wants,  is  to  meet 
—if  not  in  the  flesh — then  in  the  spirit.  A  word  will  do  it. 
I  am  getting  on — my  heart  is  in  my  work — &  though  I  have 
been  long  about  it,  it  won't  be  long — but  I  think  &  hope  it 
will  be  strong.  Quite  a  sprinkling  of  American  friends — 
some  new  ones  this  spring — among  them  Mr.  &  Mrs.  Pennell1 
from  Philadelphia — whom  you  know — we  1  ke  them  well — 
hope  to  see  them  again  &  again.  Also  Miss  Keyse  (her  sister 
married  Emerson's  son)  from  Concord,  and  the  Lesleys — 
Mary  Lesley  has  married  &  gone  to  the  West — St.  Paul — 
has  just  got  a  little  son. 

How  does  the  "little  shanty"  answer,  I  wonder?  Herby 
has  been  painting  some  charming  little  bits  in  an  old  terraced 
garden  here.  I  do  wish  you  could  hear  Giddy  sing  now;  I 
am  sure  her  voice  would  "go  to  the  right  spot,"  as  you  used 
to  say.  Good-bye,  dearest  friend.  Love  from  all  &  most 
from 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 


i  Artists,  famous  for  their  etchings.    Mr.  Pennell  made  several  etchings  for  Dr.  Bucke's  biog 
raphy  of  Whitman. 

227 


LETTER     LXXI 

ANNE    GILCHRIST   TO    WALT    WHITMAN 

Wolverlampton 

Oct.  26,  '84. 
DEAR  WALT: 

I  don't  suppose  the  enclosed  will  give  you  nearly  so  much 
pleasure  as  it  gives  me.  But  Villiers  Stanford  is,  I  think, 
the  best  composer  England  has  produced  since  the  days  of 
Purcell  &  Blow,  and  your  words  will  be  sent  home  to  hun 
dreds  &  thousands  who  had  not  before  seen  them.  How 
lovely  the  words  read  as  themes  for  great  music! 

1  have  been  staying  with  old  friends  who  have  a  house  you 
would  enjoy — it  stands  all  alone  on  the  top  of  a  heath-clad 
hill,  with  miles  of  coppice  (young  woods)  below  it,  and  spread 
out  beyond  is  a  rich  valley  with  more  wooded  hills  jutting 
out  into  it — and  you  see  the  storms  a  long  way  off  travelling 
up  from  the  sea,  and  you  can  wander  for  miles  &  miles  through 
the  woods  or  over  the  breezy  hill — or,  as  you  sit  at  your 
window,  feel  yourself  in  the  very  heart  of  a  great,  beautiful 
solitude.  Very  kind,  warm  friends,  too,  they  are,  who  leave 
you  as  free  as  a  bird  to  do  what  you  like.  I  have  had  all 
the  papers,  dear  friend,  &  have  enjoyed  them. 

Now  I  am  in  the  heart  of  the  "Black  Country/'  as  we 
call  it — black  with  the  smoke  of  thousands  of  foundries  & 
works  of  all  kinds — staying  with  Percy  &  his  wife.  Percy  is 
having  a  very  arduous  time  here  starting  some  Steel  Works— 
&  what  with  his  men  being  inexperienced  &  times  bad  &  the 
machinery  not  yet  perfectly  adjusted,  he  seems  harassed 

228 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

night  &  day — for  these  things  have  to  be  kept  going  all  night 
too — but  I  hope  he  will  get  into  smoother  waters  soon.  The 
little  son  is  rosy  &  bright  &  healthy— goes  to  school  now, 
which,  being  an  only  child,  he  enjoys  mightily  for  the  sake  of 
the  companionship  of  other  boys. 
Love  from  us  all,  dear  friend. 

A.  GILCHRIST. 

Grace  &  Herby  well 
&  busy  when  I  left. 


229 


LETTER     LXXII 

ANNE    GILCHRIST  TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

Keats  Corner 
H  amp  stead 

Dec.  17/84. 
DEAREST  FRIEND: 

At  last  I  have  extracted  a  little  bit  of  news  about  you  from 
friend  Carpenter,  who  never  comes  to  see  us  and  is  [as]  reluc 
tant  to  write  letters  as — somebody  else  that  I  know.  That 
you  have  a  comfortable,  elderly  couple  to  keep  house  for  you 
was  a  good  hearing — for  "the  old  shanty"  had  risen  before 
my  eyes  as  somewhat  lonely,  &  perhaps  the  cooking,  &c.,  not 
well  attended  to. — There  seems  a  curious  kind  of  ebb  and  flow 
about  the  recognition  of  you  in  England — just  now  there  are 
signs  of  the  flow — of  a  steadily  gathering  great  wave,  one 
indication  of  which  is  the  little  pamphlet  just  published  in 
Edinburgh — one  of  the  "Round  Table"  Series — no  doubt  a 
copy  has  been  sent  you,  If  not  and  you  would  care  to  see  it, 
I  will  send  you  one  On  the  whole  I  like  it  (barring  one  or 
two  stupidities) — at  any  rate,  as  compared  with  what  has 
hitherto  been  written.  My  poor  article  has  so  far  been 
rejected  by  editors — so  I  have  laid  it  by  for  a  little,  to  come 
with  a  fresh  eye  &  see  if  I  can  make  it  in  any  way  more 
likely  to  win  a  hearing — though  I  often  say  to  myself,  "  If 
they  have  not  ears  to  hear  you,  how  is  it  likely  one  can  unstop 
their  ears?"  But  on  the  other  hand  there  is  always  the 

230 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

chance  of  leading  some  to  read  the  Poems  who  had  not  else 
done  so. — Percy  &  Norah  and  Archie,  now  grown  a  very 
sturdy  active  little  fellow,  are  coming  to  spend  Xmas  with 
us,  which  is  a  great  pleasure. 

I  am  deep  in  Froude's  last  volumes  of  "Carlyle's  Life  in 
London  " .  Folks  are  grumbling  that  they  have  had  enough  & 
too  much  of  Carlyle  &  bis  grumblings  and  sarcasms.  But  he 
is  an  inexhaustibly  interesting  figure  to  me,  &  will  remain  so 
in  the  long  run  to  the  world,  I  am  persuaded.  It  grieves  me 
that  he  should  have  been  so  cruelly  unjust  to  himself  as  a 
husband — that  remorse,  those  bitter  self-reproaches,  were 
undeserved,  were  altogether  morbid:  he  was  not  only  an 
infinitely  better  husband  than  she  was  wife:  he  was  wonder 
fully  affectionate  &  tender  &  just — &  as  to  his  temper  & 
irritable  nerves,  she  knew  what  she  was  about  when  she 
married  him.  Herby  was  walking  through  the  British 
Museum  the  other  day  with  a  friend  when  a  group,  a  ready- 
made  picture,  struck  him — it  was  a  young  student-sculptress, 
a  graceful  girl  high  on  a  pile  of  boxes  modelling  in  clay  a 
copy  of  an  antique  statue,  &  standing  below,  looking  up  at 
her,  was  a  young  sculptor  in  his  blouse,  criticising  her  work 
with  much  animation  &  gesture;  the  background  of  the 
group,  a  part  of  the  Elgin  Marbles.  So  this  is  what  Herby 
is  painting  &  I  think  he  will  make  a  very  jolly  little  picture 
out  of  it.  I  have  been  much  a  prisoner  to  the  house  with 
bad  colds  ever  since  I  returned  from  Wolverhampton,  but 
am  beginning  to  get  out  again — which  puts  new  life  into 
me.  I  have  never  envied  anything  in  this  world  but  a  man's 
strong  legs  &  powers  of  tramping,  tramping,  over  hill  &  dale 
as  long  as  he  pleases — legs  would  content  me  and  a  sound 
breathing  apparatus!  I  am  in  no  hurry  for  wings.  Giddy's 
voice,  too,  is  just  now  eclipsed  by  cold. 

I  hope  you  have  escaped  this  evil  and  are  able  to  jaunt 
to  &  fro  on  the  ferries  as  freely  as  ever.  And  I  hope  the 

231 


ANNE   GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

pleasant  Quaker  friends  are  well — and  Mr.  &  Mrs.  Whitman 
and  Hattie  &  Jessie — there  is  a  fellow  student  of  Giddy's  at 
the  Guild  Hall  music  school  who  so  reminds  her  of  Hattie. 
Love  from  us  all,  dear  friend.    Most  from  me. 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 


232 


LETTER     LXXIII 

ANNE   GILCHRIST  TO  WALT  WHITMAN 

Keats  Corner 
Hampstead,  England 

Feb.  27/85. 
DEAREST  FRIEND: 

How  has  the  winter  passed  with  you  I  wonder?  Me  it 
has  imprisoned  very  much  with  bronchial  &  asthmatic 
troubles — and  the  four  walls  of  the  house  &  the  ceiling  seem 
to  close  in  upon  one's  spirit  as  well  as  one's  body,  all  too  much. 
I  hope  you  have  been  able  to  wend  to  and  fro  daily  on  the 
great  ferry  boats  &  enjoy  the  beautiful  broad  river  &  the  sky 
&  the  throngs  of  people  as  of  old — you  are  in  my  thoughts  as 
constantly  as  ever,  though  I  have  been  so  silent.  Percy  & 
his  wife  &  the  little  son  spent  some  weeks  with  us  at  Christmas 
&  now  they  have  taken  a  house  quite  near,  into  which  they 
will  be  moving  in  a  week  or  two.  I  can't  tell  you  what  a 
dear,  affectionate,  reasonable,  companionable  little  fellow 
Archie  is — now  six  years  old.  Perhaps  you  will  have  seen 
in  the  American  papers  that  Sidney  Thomas,  the  cousin 
with  whom  Percy  was  associated  in  the  discovery  of  the  Basic 
process,  is  dead — he  spent  his  strength  too  freely — wore 
himself  out  at  35 — he  was  much  loved  by  all  with  whom  he 
had  to  do.  His  mother  &  sister  have  been  watching  &  hop 
ing  against  hope  &  taking  him  to  warm  climates,  he  himself 
full  of  hope — the  mind  bright  and  active  to  the  last — &  now 

23? 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

he  is  gone — &  his  eldest  brother  died  only  two  months  before 
him. — I  cannot  help  grieving  over  public  affairs  too — never 
in  my  lifetime  has  old  England  been  in  such  a  bad  way— no 
honest  &  capable  man  seemingly  to  take  the  helm— &  what 
Carlyle  was  fond  of  describing  as  the  attempt  to  guide  the 
ship  by  the  shouts  of  the  bystanders  on  shore — the  news 
papers  &c.  prospering  very  ill.  A  government  that  tries 
perpetually  how  to  do  it  and  how  not  to  do  it  at  the  same 
moment!  The  best  comfort  is  that  I  do  not  think  there  is 
any,  the  smallest  sign,  of  deterioration  in  the  English  race; 
so  we  shall  pull  through  somehow,  after  tremendous  disasters. 
How  many  things  should  I  like  to  sit  and  chat  with  you  about, 
dear  Walt — above  all  to  see  you  again !  I  could  not  get  my 
article  into  any  of  the  magazines  I  most  wished.  I  believe 
it  is  coming  out  in  To-Day.  Giddy  was  so  pleased  at 
your  sending  her  a  paper— a  very  capital  article  too  it  is 
of  Miss  Kellogg.  I  was  interested  also  in  a  little  paragraph 
I  found  about  Pullman  town,  near  Chicago,  which  confirmed 
my  suspicion  that  it  was  not  a  thing  with  healthy  roots— 
but  only  a  benevolent  despotism.  I  am  seeing  a  good  deal 
of  your  socialists  just  now — &  I  confess  that  though  they 
mean  well,  I  think  they  have  less  sense  in  their  heads  than 
any  people  I  ever  saw. 

I  am  going  to  pay  a  little  visit  to  those  friends  (friend 
liest  of  friends)  who  live  on  the  lonely  top  of  a  heath-covered 
hill — with  such  an  outlook,  such  wooded  slopes  and  broad 
valleys — and  the  storms  travelling  up  hours  before  they 
arrive — such  sweeps  of  sunshine  too! — &  they  mean  to  drive 
me  about  till  I  am  quite  strong  again.  So  the  next  letter  I 
write,  dear  Friend,  shall  be  more  cheery.  I  am  afraid  to 
look  back  lest  this  one  should  read  too  grumbly  to  send.  I 
don't  feel  grumbly  however — only  shut  in.  Herby  has 
been  working  hard  at  getting  up  an  exhibition  here  to  help 
along  our  Public  Library.  It  is  so  very  hard  to  stir  up 

234 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

anything  like  public  spirit  &  unity  of  action  in  London  or 
its  suburbs — I  suppose  because  of  its  vastness — &  alas! 
also  the  social  cliques  &  gentilities  &  snobbishnesses.  Good 
bye,  dearest  Walt,  with  love  from  all. 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 


235 


LETTER     LXXIV 

ANNE     GILCHRIST  TO   WALT  WHITMAN 

Hampstead 

May  4, '8$. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

Delays  of  Editors — there  is  no  end  to  them !  I  am  prom 
ised  now  that  the  art.  shall  appear  in  the  June  No.,  &  if  it 
does  I  will  send  you  at  once  the  number  of  copies  you  name. 
And  if  it  does  not,  I  think  I  had  best  get  it  back  &  have  done 
with  the  editors  of  To-day  &  try  for  some  other  &  better 
opening  again. 

I  have  been  reading  &  re-reading  &  pondering  over  Froude's 
9  vols  of  Carlyle — "The  Reminiscences/'  "Letters,"  &c.  &c. — 
and  am  pretty  well  at  boiling  point  with  indignation  against 
Froude — boiling  point  of  anger  &  freezing  point  of  contempt. 
His  betrayal  at  every  point  of  a  sacred  trust!  lazy,  slip-shod 
editing!  not  even  taking  the  pains  to  put  letters  and  their 
answers  together — but  printing  the  one  in  1882  &  the  others 
three  or  four  years  after — so  that  half  the  meaning  and  all 
the  mutuality  of  the  letters  are  lost !  And  then  the  sly  malig 
nity  of  the  comments  with  which  they  are  preceded!  If  I 
live  I  will  do  my  utmost  to  expose  all  this  &  to  show  that 
Mrs.  Carlyle  was  no  injured  heroine,  nor  he  a  selfish  &  neg 
lected  husband.  Both  had  their  faults,  but  the  balance  of 
affection  &  tenderness  was  largely  on  his  side,  as  well  as  of 
other  great  qualities:  though  I  like  her  too — &  think  she 
would  have  scorned  Froude's  ignoble  championship. 

Herby  has  had  rather  better  luck  with  his  pictures  this 

236 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

year.  Has  one — "The  Sculptor's  Lesson'* — fairly  well 
hung  at  the  Royal  Academy — where  it  shines  out  very  cheer 
fully  &  holds  its  own  modestly,  I  may  say  without  maternal 
vanity.  I  think  I  described  to  you  the  little  bit  of  actual 
life  it  depicts — a  young  girl  he  saw  at  the  British  Museum 
modelling  a  copy  of  an  antique  statue  &  young  sculptor  in  his 
blouse  standing  below  &  giving  her  some  animated  criticism — 
a  little  bit  of  the  Elgin  marbles  in  the  background.  Herb, 
has  also  a  little  picture  he  calls  "  Midsummer" — a  bit  of  a 
very  old  &  buttressed  wall  hung  with  roses  in  full  bloom,  & 
Giddy's  figure  standing  above — at  the  Grosvenor.  Now  if 
he  has  the  luck  to  sell  too!  He  has  a  commission  also  to 
paint  a  small  portrait  of  me  for  our  friends  at  Marley,  on 
which  he  is  busy  just  now.  As  soon  as  he  has  a  little  spare 
money  in  his  pocket  I  think  his  first  use  of  it  will  be  a  run 
across  the  Atlantic  &  a  glimpse  of  you,  dear  Friend.  Giddy 
is  going  to  sing  at  a  Soiree  of  socialists  &  revolutionary  folk 
in  general  on  Wednesday.  Her  songs  are  to  be  "The  Wear 
ing  of  the  Green"— &  "Poland  Dirge"&  the  "Marseillaise". 
You  will  think  we  are  getting  pretty  red  hot!  But  alas! 
though  our  sympathy  with  the  Cause — the  cause  of  suffering 
millions — is  warm,  our  faith  in  the  wisdom  &  ability  of  those 
who  are  aspiring  to  be  the  leaders,  so  far  as  we  know  anything 
of  them — is  infinitesimal. 

What  a  burst  of  beauty  we  have  had  during  the  last  ten 
days!  We  look  out  just  now  on  a  sea  of  apple  &  pear 
blossoms,  from  the  deepest  pink  to  dazzling  white — &  the 
tenderest  green  intermingled  with  all.  I  hope  you  are  able 
to  be  out  nearly  all  day  &  enjoy  all — and  that  home  affairs 
go  smoothly  &  comfortably  &  that  Mrs.  Davis1  is  attentive  & 
good  &  every  way  adequate  as  care-taker. 

I  am  looking  forward  very  much  to  the  "After  Songs"  and 
"  Letters  of  Parting".  Does  the  sale  of  "Leaves  of  Grass"  con- 

»Mrs.  Mary  Davis,  who  was  Whitman's  housekeeper  until  his  death. 

237 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALt  WHITMAN 

tinue  pretty  steady?  I  look  forward  with  a  sort  of  dread  to 
seeing  my  article  in  proof,  lest  I  should  feel  very  disap 
pointed  with  it. 
Your  loving  friend, 

A.  GILCHRIST. 

Do  you  ever  see  or  hear  from  Mr.  Marvin?  He  is  a  favourite 
with  all  of  us.  Do  you  remember  how  we  laughed  at  his 
dramatic  presentation  of  a  negro  prayer  meeting? 


238 


LETTER     LXXV 

ANNE   GILCHRIST   TO   WALT   WHITMAN 

Hampstead,    London 

Jan.   21,   85. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

I  hope  the  To-days  have  come  safe  to  hand.  I  am 
thinking  a  great  deal  about  the  new  edition;  and  cannot  help 
hoping  you  are  going  to  revert  to  the  plan  of  the  Centennial 
Edition,  which  issued  your  writings  in  two  independent 
volumes.  May  I,  without  being  presumptuous,  dear  Walt, 
tell  you  how  I  should  dearly  like  to  see  them  arranged?  I 
want  "Crossing  Brooklyn  Ferry/'  "Song  at  Sunset/'  "Song 
of  the  Open  Road/'  "Starting  from  Paumanok,"  "Carol 
of  Words/'  "Carol  of  Occupations  "and  either  as  "As  I  Sat 
by  Blue  Ontario's  Shore"  or  the  Preface  to  edit.  55  put  into 
"Two  Rivulets" — you  could  make  room  for  them  that  the 
volumes  might  balance  in  size  by  making  them  exchange 
places  with  the  "Centennial  Songs"  and  the  "Memoranda 
During  the  War";  not  that  these  are  not  precious  to  me,  but 
I  want  it  dearest  because  I  want  in  the  Two  Rivulet  Volume 
what  will  best  prepare  the  reader,  lift  him  up  to  the  true 
point  of  view,  and  make  him  all  your  own,  before  he  comes 
to  the  inner  sanctuary  of  "Calamus"  &  "Walt  Whitman" 
&" Children  of  Adam." 

Monday  morn.  Your  letter  just  to  hand.  It  gives  me 
deep  joy,  dear  Friend.  I  have  sent  copies  of  To-Day  to 
Dr.  Bucke  &  John  Burroughs  but  did  not  know  of  his  change 
of^address;  so  fear  it  has  miscarried.  I  will  send  another, 

239 


ANNE  GILCHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

and  also  one  to  W.  O'Connor. — You  did  not  tell  me  about 
your  fall — unless  indeed  a  letter  has  been  lost.  It  fills  me 
with  concern  because  of  the  difficulty  it  increases  in  getting 
that  free  out-door  life  that  is  so  dear  &  essential  to  your  soul 
&  body,  and  because,  too,  I  still  cherished  in  my  heart  a 
hope  that  I  should  yet  see  you  again — here  in  my  own  home— 
&  now  it  seems  next  to  an  impossibility.  Right  thankful 
am  I  to  hear  about  Mrs.  Davis — that  she  takes  good  care 
of  you — please  give  her  a  friendly  greeting  from  me.  I  am 
going  to  have  rather  a  bothersome  summer — first  of  all, 
the  house  full  of  workmen  to  make  all  clean  &  tidy;  &  then 
my  Scotch  lassie,  friend  &  factotum  rather  than  servant,  must 
have  a  holiday  &  go  to  her  friends  in  Scotland  for  a  month. 
I  shall  heartily  welcome  your  friend,  no  need  to  say,  &  be 
sure  to  like  her.  Love  from  Grace  &  Herb.  &  most  of  all 
from  me.  I  have  plenty  more  to  say  but  won't  delay  this. 
Good-bye,  dear  Walt. 

ANNE  GILCHRIST, 


240 


LETTER     LXXVI 

ANNE    GILCHRIST   TOWALT   WH   ITMAN 

12  Well  Rd.,  Hampstead,  Eng. 

July  20,  '85. 
MY  DEAREST  FRIEND: 

A  kind  of  anxiety  has  for  some  time  past  weighed  upon 
me  and  upon  others,  I  find,  who  love  &  admire  you,  that  you 
do  not  have  all  the  comforts  you  ought  to  have;  that  you  are 
perhaps  sometimes  straightened  for  means.  We  have  had 
letters  from  several  young  men,  almost  or  quite  strangers  to 
us,  asking  questions  on  this  subject;  and  we  hoped  &  thought 
that  if  this  were  so,  you  would  permit  those  who  have  received 
such  priceless  gifts  from  you  to  put  their  gratitude  into 
some  tangible  shape,  some  "free-will  offering."  Hence  the 
paragraph  was  put  into  the  Athenaeum  which  I  send  with  this, 
and  we  were  proceeding  to  organize  our  forces  when  your 
paper  came  to  hand  this  morning  (the  Camden  Post,  July  3), 
which  seems  decisively  to  bid  us  desist.  Or  at  all  events 
wait  till  we  had  told  you  of  our  wishes  and  plan.  One  thing 
would,  I  feel  sure,  give  you  pleasure  in  any  case;  and  that  is 
to  know  that  there  is  over  here  a  little  band — perhaps  in 
deed  it  is  now  quite  a  considerable  one,  for  we  had  not  yet 
had  time  to  ascertain  how  considerable — who  would  joyfully 
respond  to  that  Poem  of  yours,  "  To  Rich  Givers. " 

A  friend  and  near  neighbour  of  ours,  Frederick  Wedmore, 
is  coming  over  to  America  this  autumn,  and  counts  much  on 
coming  to  see  you.  He  is  a  well-known  writer  on  Art  here— 

241 


ANNE  GILGHRIST  AND  WALT  WHITMAN 

a  friendly,  candid,  open-minded  man  with  whom,  I  think,  you 
will  enjoy  a  talk. 

I  am  on  the  lookout  for  Miss  Smith1 — shall  indeed  enjoy  a 
talk  with  a  special  friend  of  yours,  dear  Walt.  I  hope  she 
will  not  fail  to  come.  Giddy  is  away  at  Haslemere.  Herby 
just  going  to  write  for  himself  to  you. 

That  is  a  very  graphic  bit  in  the  Post — the  portrait  of  Hugo, 
the  canary  &  the  kitten — I  like  to  know  all  that—as  well  as 
to  hear  the  talk. 

My  love,  dear  Walt. 

ANNE  GILCHRIST. 

So  far  as  can  be  ascertained  this  is  the  last  letten 
Anne  Gilchrist  died  Nov.  29th,  1885. 

»  Daughter  of  Pearsall  Smith,  of  Philadelphia. 


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